The Safest Place
by Bullfinch
Summary: Scott screws up. Derek's not good at emotions. Stiles isn't exactly an expert either. But they've got other, more lethal things to worry about. Derek/Stiles. M for language and people getting hurt, eventually. Takes place sometime before the events of 2x08.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: This chapter is in Stiles's headspace. The next will be in Derek's. It'll switch back and forth, but each chapter belongs to one character. Also, despite being rated M, this fic will contain no smut. Sorry(?).

"Hey Derek." Stiles is still in panic mode, so his voice flutters and gives out at the end, but he keeps going. "Do you—"

"Just shut up and move." Derek puts one hand on Stiles's shoulder, claws hooking briefly under his collarbone (Stiles tries not to jump at the contact but can't help it), and shoves hard.

He stumbles, but his fingertips catch the wet asphalt and he manages not to fall—which surprises him, actually; Derek's supposed to be absurdly strong and yet doesn't have the strength to topple a skinny sixteen-year-old kid. Stiles fixes his flannel shirt and turns back to Derek. He's hunched, sagging like the frame of his skeleton is the only thing keeping him upright. Stiles rubs away his remaining panic tears and is about to try and help the Alpha, but Derek looks up sharply. His eyes catch the light from the streetlamp and glow a vicious red. "I said _move_. Or I'll walk right back in there and tell them they can keep you."

Normally he would think that was a joke. But Derek's growl is harsher than Stiles can remember it ever being before, rattling out from some deep animal part of him he usually keeps buried. And the threat itself is cruelly aimed. He knows Derek saw how that Alpha was treating him. Stiles claps a hand to his neck. The ghost of the sensation still lingers, the tongue running up the side of his throat. He shudders violently, wrenches himself around, walks down the driveway, tries to take deep breaths.

The Camaro's a few yards down the curb, and he marches to it, leaning against the passenger door and looking back up the street. Derek's trying to hide his pain, and he's doing okay with it—his steps are even, hands at his sides. But that's a whole lot of blood, and he walks too slow. _Stupid wolf is too goddamn proud to accept help._ _Or he just doesn't think I'm good enough to help him._ Stiles's fists clench. His nerves are completely shredded. He can't remember the last time he was this freaked out or angry, and he _definitely_ can't remember how to get himself back under control.

The keys hit his chest hard enough to make him wince, and he catches them reflexively. Derek opens the passenger door, pushing Stiles off of it. "Drive."

Derek letting someone else drive his car. _Not good. Not good._

It's a smoother ride than the Jeep, certainly. Stiles makes a concerted effort to focus on that and not look over at the passenger seat. Not even a glance. The acceleration's way more responsive than what he's used to. The car shifts gears. He barely feels it.

"Are you okay?"

Stiles looks over.

The pretense appears to have faded, whether because Derek can't keep it up or doesn't want to anymore, Stiles isn't sure. He's leaning against the door, practically curled into his seat, arms cradled in each other. He opens his eyes and repeats the question. "Are you okay?"

"Does it matter?" Stiles can feel himself getting angry and doesn't know how to stop it. "Because you really didn't seem to care how I was doing when you said you were gonna _give me back _to them—"

"I didn't mean it."

"Then why the hell did you—"

"They could still hear us." Derek's not looking at him anymore, gazes out the window instead. "If they don't think you're important, maybe they won't target you again."

Stiles realizes he maybe should have thought of that earlier. After all, he's supposed to be the brains of the outfit. The anger compresses very quickly and slides back down to where it came from. It hurts a little, in some weird psychological way.

"Well?"

"Oh. Um. I'm okay. Got some scratches, but nothing major."

"That's not what I meant."

He has to make himself concentrate on the road because his mind feels like a struck bell, ringing and ringing and ringing. He can't talk to Derek about real things. About things that matter. Derek Hale isn't his friend. Derek Hale doesn't care about the fragile human feelings of high school spaz Stiles Stilinski. Stiles tries to reconcile this with what Derek Hale has just said.

Derek shifts in his seat. "Never mind. You don't have to answer."

"I don't know."

He didn't mean to say that. (He didn't mean to say anything.) But it's true, because the whole kidnapping thing certainly wrecked him some, and now on top of that, he's discovering that his previously well-established view of Derek Hale may have a huge, fatal flaw.

He can feel Derek's eyes on him. And there's no way he can deal with a follow-up question, so he preempts the possibility with one of his own. "Are _you_ okay? Because you look kind of totally awful."

"I just fought an Alpha alone. On his turf. With his entire pack at his back. I'm lucky all my limbs are still attached."

Derek's using that old familiar _you're an incredible idiot_ tone, which makes Stiles feel a lot more comfortable with the direction of the conversation. "Okay, hey, sorry, just wondering if you're gonna make it back to Beacon Hills or if I'm gonna need to dump your body somewhere before we get there. Can I keep your car, by the way? It's _really_—"

"I need patching up."

The fact that Derek doesn't get angry at his snark puts Stiles on edge again. "Oh. Okay. Dr. Deaton?"

"Yeah."

Stiles hears Derek move in his seat, followed by a sharp intake of breath. He looks over, and he's right—Derek's teeth are bared, his eyes screwed shut, hand squeezed tight over a particularly bloody area on his thigh.

"Whoa." He can't help it. He's never seen Derek like this. Hurt, sure. But never giving in to it. Never looking like he's hurting. Maybe the pain's just a lot worse this time. Or maybe it doesn't matter. If he doesn't care about letting Stiles see him this way.

Derek relaxes a little, but his jaw remains set. "Drive fast. I'd rather get there with more than three ounces of blood left in me."

Stiles steps on the gas. He's worried. But it's different this time. He's worried about Derek. Not just the ally, or the pack leader. He's worried about the man who saved him and is now possibly bleeding out next to him on some foggy stretch of road between Bridgewater and Beacon Hills. The man who just asked him if he was okay.

—

Dr. Deaton doesn't look particularly happy about being woken up at half past midnight on a Thursday morning, but at least Derek is letting Stiles support him on their way to the clinic, so that's something.

Derek is heavy. Stiles was kind of expecting that, but that doesn't make it any easier. He shifts his grip and his fingers sink a little too deep into Derek's side, finding furrows left by the other Alpha's claws. Blood rushes up and covers his skin. Derek's blood. Derek grabs his hand, yanks it away, swears.

"Sorry. Sorry." Stiles can't apologize fast enough. He tries to say more but the words collide with each other and get tangled up in his mouth.

"Careful." Derek is crushing Stiles's fingers, and he loosens his grip, pressing Stiles's hand to a spot higher up on his ribcage. It works. They get through the door.

Derek's clothes come off slowly. Deaton tries to be gentle, but there's no way around it, how the fabric sticks to the ugly gashes. Derek shivers each time the cloth pulls away and breaks the beginnings of a scab. Stiles is a little sick at the sight, but he feels like he needs to be here. Like he owes it to Derek in some way to bear witness to the consequences of his kidnapping. He can't even count the wounds. They run into each other. The triskelion on Derek's naked back is split by claw marks. He wonders if they'll scar and warp the ink.

"You should call Scott." Derek's voice is low but steady. "He's probably wondering if you made it out."

"I—right." Stiles vaults to his feet and pulls out his phone.

"And tell him to keep laying low."

"But—didn't you just beat the other guy? Like, categorically?"

"Yeah." Derek looks over his shoulder, meets Stiles's eyes for emphasis. "But I really don't like the vibe I was getting from him."

The fact that this might not be over sends electricity shooting through the burned-out ends of Stiles's already shattered nerves. He staggers out of the room.

It's a little chilly outside, and still humid from the recent drizzle. Scott picks up on the first ring. "Stiles!"

"Hi. Yeah. I'm okay. Derek came to get me."

"Holy crap, Stiles, I was freaking out—"

"No, um, they didn't hurt me—" Stiles rubs that spot on his neck again. "—they just, they were waiting for you."

"Derek wouldn't let me come. Said he was gonna do some one-on-one Alpha-versus-Alpha ritual fight thing, so no one else would get hurt."

"Yeah, well, _he_ definitely got hurt."

"How bad?"

"Pretty bad." Stiles glances back at the clinic. "He's with Dr. Deaton right now."

"Damnit." Scott sighs in a static rush. "Damnit. I had no idea. I had no idea what I was doing."

"Hey, well, everyone's alive, right? It's fine. Everything's fine."

"Okay."

"Just don't be a total dumbass next time."

"How was I supposed to know that I was gonna horribly offend the Alpha—"

"Oh yeah, that's another thing. Derek says keep laying low."

"_What?_ I'm sick of sitting in my room all the time instead of, you know, seeing Allison—"

"Hey, that's the big bad wolf's words, I'm just the messenger."

Scott groans. "Fine! Well, do you wanna come over tomorrow then, since I'm not allowed to go visit you?"

"Sure. Yeah."

They hang up. Stiles gazes out into the woods behind the clinic. The humidity isn't letting up. He remembers the other Alpha's breath, hot and wet, behind his ear. Something moves in the woods. Stiles jumps hard and darts back inside.

—

Forty-five minutes later, Derek is buttoning up his shirt. Deaton leans back against the sink. "Keep drinking water. And no strenuous activity. Don't want to risk tearing those stitches open. And one more thing: try to stay out of trouble, would you? Or at least wait until the sun is up next time."

"Thanks." Only about half the buttons are still attached to the shirt. Derek finishes up and touches Stiles's arm lightly on his way past, indicating that they're ready to go.

Stiles drives again. Derek looks better now, or at least steadier. That goes a long way toward calming Stiles down. On an impulse, he punches the power button on the stereo.

He can't identify the band that comes on, but it's hair metal. The singer squeals almost as bad as the guitars. Oh yes. Definitely hairy. Stiles's mouth hangs open, halfway to a laugh. "You listen to this?"

Derek glares from the opposite seat. "You want to keep your face in one piece?"

His meaning is clear. Stiles shuts up, but he can't help grinning. He wonders if Derek sings along to his favorite CDs when he's alone in the car. Yowling along with the screeching vocals. Driving with his knees so he can drum on the steering wheel. And when he glances over again, he sees that Derek is smiling too, just a little. Which is way better than the homicidal glower he was expecting. Derek tilts his head back on the headrest. "My dad used to put this album on all the time when we were kids."

They drive the rest of the way in silence. (Well, not quite silence. Derek lets the CD keep playing.)

Stiles pulls up across from his house and parks. His own father will be worried sick by now. But he doesn't open the car door. "Where are you going?"

"Home." Derek grasps the door handle.

"You mean that old subway station?"

"Yeah."

Stiles can't avoid it. _I don't want to be alone. _The thought roars too loudly in his head. It might even be rational, considering how Derek seems to think this isn't over. And he doesn't know when he went from being afraid that Derek was going to rip his throat out any second to feeling safe around him. Not just safe from him. Safe from anything. He suspects that's a result of sitting tied up and terrified and then watching Derek Hale storm in, teeth bared, eyes flashing red, demanding his release.

The other Alpha was crouched beside Stiles. He ran his thumb over Stiles's jaw to the corner of his mouth, where his lip was split. _You'll have to take him from me._

"Do you want to come in?"

Derek stares.

Stiles opens his mouth to take it back, to counter it, then realizes he doesn't want to. "I mean, you need to rest, right? It'll probably be a lot nicer here than whatever you have at that—"

"Okay."

Stiles tries to believe that Derek has just said yes. It's hard.

Derek starts to get out, then hesitates. "Your dad."

"Yeah, I have to talk to him. Shouldn't take long. Just go in through my window." He opens the car door, points. "That one."

He texted his dad back at the clinic, but he's not surprised to see lights on in the living room, nor to see his father, still awake, rushing toward him. "Stiles! It's two in the morning! What the _hell_ were you up to?" He sees the cut on his son's lip. "Stiles—who did that do you?"

"It's nothing, Dad. Really. It's fine." The last thing he wants is to make his father worry any more. "But I'm super tired right now, so can we talk about this tomorrow?"

His father just watches him for a moment, wary, then gives in. "Okay. Tomorrow. But we _are_ going to talk about it. No weaseling out."

"I know." Stiles rubs his eyes. "I know."

Derek is standing patiently in his room. He looks relaxed, but he's clutching the window frame, and Stiles wishes there was something more he could do. "You can have the bed. I'll take the bean bag." He kicks the thing, a dark green blob sporting two duct-tape patches from when Scott jumped on it a little too enthusiastically.

"I—"

"No, seriously. Go for it. And you can take my clothes, if you want. Yours are kinda…"

Derek lifts the remnants of his shirt gingerly. "Shredded?"

"Yeah." He gestures vaguely at the door. "I'm gonna go take a shower."

"Stiles?"

"Hm?"

"Thanks."

Derek looks a little cautious, but sincere. Stiles holds his gaze for a moment, trying to think of a way to respond; failing that, he nods quickly and ducks out.

He doesn't spend much time in the shower. Even those few minutes of being by himself bring the fear trickling up again. But while he's toweling off, he realizes he forgot to take any clean clothes with him, which means he has to go back to his room and try to put clothes on in silence (Derek is already asleep) while also keeping his towel on (in case Derek is not actually asleep). Eventually he's decent.

The bean bag lies forlorn by the bureau. He could probably fit on it if he curled up tight enough.

_I don't want to be alone._

Derek's lying on his back—probably the only way he could sleep; his back is the least cut-up part of him. He's mostly on one side of the bed. Stiles could fit there a lot easier than on the bean bag.

He's tired of being so freaked out. And the only thing that's helped so far is having Derek sitting next to him.

He does it carefully, kneels on the bed, lies down on his stomach, pulls the pillow under his head. Hopefully it's not enough to wake Derek. He's given the werewolf some space anyway, scooted over as far as possible to the opposite edge of the bed.

He turns his head towards Derek and watches him for a little. He looks at peace. It's comforting.

He falls asleep pretty quick.

—

"Stiles!" Knocking at the door.

"Mm." He rolls over, one pale arm flopping across the bed. "What."

"It's almost half past seven! You're gonna be late for school!"

"School." He snuffles, rubs his nose.

"Stiles!" His father pushes the door open. "Come on, buddy. Up and at 'em."

Stiles opens his eyes. "Okay, Dad, got it."

It's only after his father has left the room that he remembers the previous night. A wave of disbelief hits him so strongly it feels like a head rush. _Derek Hale slept in my room last night. _And yet—there's no one else here. Maybe the whole thing was a dream.

He entertains the possibility until Derek's head pops up over the edge of the bed.

Stiles barely manages to stop himself from shrieking like a little girl. He does not manage to stop the general flailing of limbs that have been moved to action yet have no idea what action to take.

"Stiles! Calm down, it's just me." Derek stands, his bloodstained clothes tucked under one arm. "You have school. You should get going."

Stiles notices something, and grins. Derek's face folds into a suspicious frown. "What?"

"I have six different colors of sweatshirts and you picked the black one."

"Yes, I picked the black one. You might not have noticed, but blue-and-purple stripes isn't exactly my style."

The familiar low, sarcastic growl. Stiles feels better already. He shrugs. "Shoulda gone with the green one. It'd really bring out your eyes."

For some reason this line feels risky right now, fraught with something Stiles didn't intend. He's not sure if Derek senses it too. Instead of replying, the werewolf simply cocks an eyebrow at him and backs up, slipping out the window.

Stiles stays frozen there until he hears his dad call his name again. The clock tells him he's got about seven minutes to get dressed and eat breakfast before he has to leave for school. Rummaging through the bureau, he wonders how in hell he's supposed to get through the school day when all he can think about is how he's never felt so safe as he did last night—when he was driving a car that didn't belong to him, listening to an album that hasn't been cool for three decades, and glancing over just to catch another glimpse of Derek Hale gazing out the window with that little, sad smile on his face.


	2. Chapter 2

Derek's avoiding Stiles.

It's become obvious to the whole pack. He's stopped answering his phone. He doesn't go out as much as he used to.

And, of course, his directive: "If Stiles shows up, tell him I'm not here."

He can't say for sure why he's doing this. He's just afraid to talk to him.

Derek Hale, Alpha werewolf and last surviving bearer of the Hale name, afraid to talk to a sixteen-year-old kid.

He hates it.

It's just that he's not sure what came over him that night. Namely what possessed him to sleep over at Stiles's house. Maybe because he was sick of hiding when he was in pain, of licking his wounds alone. And the person who happened to be nearby when he was lonely and exposed was Stiles.

Why is that so hard for him to get over?

No. It's not just that. Stiles was the one who asked in the first place.

Derek presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. _This is fucking pitiful. Some kid says, 'hey, I care about what happens to you,' and I completely lose it._

"Boy troubles?"

Erica sits down across from him in the subway car. He glowers. "Don't."

She leans forward, clasps her knees. "Derek. I'm not being a bitch. I'm trying to help."

He realizes that his anger is unwarranted and drops it. _Already let one person in this week. Might as well go for two._ "After I got Stiles away from the Bridgewater Alpha, I was pretty mangled—" and he still is, "—so…I slept at his house instead of driving all the way back here."

Erica's eyes light up. She leans in even closer. "You slept with Stiles?"

"Wha—_no_. I slept…in his bed."

"Was he also in the bed?"

Derek shifts uncomfortably. He'd felt the mattress moving under him when Stiles climbed in, felt the glow of the extra body heat beside him. He hadn't opened his eyes. He was afraid Stiles would leave. "Yes."

"So you slept with him!"

Derek grits his teeth and averts his eyes. Erica waves her hands. "Okay, okay, sorry. Serious time now. So why are you avoiding him?"

"I'm not—" But it's a halfhearted protest, and Erica doesn't even wait for him to finish.

"Bullshit." She pokes him in the chest. He gives her a _what the hell_ look at her presumptuousness, and she stares right back. "You know, he actually showed up here yesterday asking about you? I felt like such an asshole having to lie to his cute little face."

"Sorry."

"Just go talk to him. What are you so afraid of him saying to you?"

_Try any variant of 'I care about you as a person.' _"I don't know, okay?"

"Then sack up and pay him a visit. If you don't, I'll know." She stands, stretches. "God, I can't believe I'm giving relationship advice to a grown man."

"Rela—it's not—" He lifts himself up in the seat, needing to correct this.

"Whatever you want to call it, Derek." She offers him a dismissive wave over her shoulder as she struts out of the car.

Derek bangs the back of his head against the side of the subway car.

God_damn_.

—

He knocks on the window.

Stiles is reclined on his bed, absorbed in something he's watching on his laptop. He glances up briefly, then jolts, stares. His mouth hangs open.

Derek rolls his eyes and knocks again, mouthing "Let me in."

Stiles stands, trips over his bedspread, gets up, trips over his desk, and finally makes it to the window, yanking it open. "Derek! Um. Hi. I wasn't…" He moves aside as Derek slips smoothly into the room. "…expecting you."

"I know." Derek takes a deep breath. His heart's pounding like he's been running from hunters. Best to get this over with. "I've been avoiding you. Sorry."

"Oh."

Stiles fumbles for a proper response. In an effort to cut the awkwardness, Derek pushes a bundle into his chest. "Here's your clothes."

Stiles gathers the clothes in his arms. "Right."

The silence stretches. This is every bit as bad as Derek had been fearing. He pushes on. "Why were you looking for me?"

"Oh! Um." Stiles dumps the clothes on his beanbag. "It's just that, the whole time, you know, from when you pulled me out at Bridgewater to when you left in the morning, I don't think I ever just said 'thank you.'" He swallows. "So, uh. Thank you. For saving me and stuff."

Derek is incredulous. _All this for—_ "Stiles. You don't even—I _know_. You don't have to say it."

There's less than two feet of space between them. Derek notices that suddenly, becomes very aware of it. He counts the inches. _No. What are you doing?_ "Is that all you wanted to say?"

Stiles steps back a little. "Well…yeah. I guess."

Derek feels like he should leave now, but for some reason he doesn't want to, and he feels like Stiles doesn't want him to either. He casts his gaze about; it lands on the laptop screen. He frowns, bends toward it. "Is—is that supposed to be a _werewolf?_"

Stiles's face lights up immediately. "Yeah it is!"

"What—that's completely ridiculous. What the hell is this?"

"Underworld! It's a movie. It's got sweet vampire-on-werewolf battles."

"Vampire on—"

"Yeah!" Stiles clambers onto the bed, sits cross-legged at the headboard. "This is what I do when I'm down and Scott's not around. Take three-hour naps, watch bad movies, eat gummy worms until my stomach explodes, you know."

Derek tries to fix him with a skeptical expression, but he caught the part about Stiles feeling down. Because he's eighty percent sure that's his fault. And it's hard to be derisive at someone when you feel guilty about ruining their week.

Stiles scoots over, pushing the laptop further down the bed with his toes. He pats the covers. "You should watch it! It's awesome."

Derek freezes.

He could be training his pack. (God knows they need it.) He could be on patrol, because he's still not satisfied that the Bridgewater Alpha's done with them. He could be chewing out Scott for pulling the idiotic stunt that got them into this mess in the first place. He hasn't gotten around to that yet because of the whole avoiding-Stiles thing.

All of these would be valuable uses of his time.

He would much rather sit here and watch a dumb werewolf movie with Stiles for the next hour and a half.

Derek sits on the edge of the bed and starts to unlace his boots. "This better not be as bad as it looks."

—

The credits roll.

Stiles is watching Derek with big hopeful puppy eyes. Derek tries to process what he just saw. He turns.

"Stiles. That was terrible."

"What? Come on, can you stop being a fun-hater for just _one_ night—"

"Stiles. This has nothing to do with me hating fun. That was just terrible." He realizes he's saying the kid's name a lot tonight.

"Well, it was _exciting_, right? With all the—" Stiles forms his hands into claws and swipes at the air, snaps his teeth together.

"Stiles. I've seen four movies in the last six years and even _I _know—"

"Wait—say that again."

Derek halts, backtracks. "Um—I've seen four movies in the last six years and—"

"No. You're kidding me."

He summons as much condescension as he can. "Stiles. Why would I _possibly_ lie to you about how many movies I've seen?"

"But why? Wait—no, I already know. Fun-hater."

"Hey. Just because I'm not all that interested—"

Derek cuts himself off when the sheriff's voice floats up from below them. "Son?"

"One sec, Dad!" Stiles hollers at the closed door, then hastily turns to Derek, who's swung his legs over the edge of the bed and is putting his boots back on. "No. This is not acceptable. I have to reform you into a—a real person. Who does real-person things like watch movies. What's your favorite movie ever?"

The question catches Derek off-guard. Certainly not anything he's seen since—he thinks about it. Life before the fire. He can't really pick one, so he just goes with what pops into his head first. His father's favorite. "The Big Sleep?"

"Hm, a classic." Stiles slides off the bed, strokes his chin. "Interesting. That'll give me something to work with."

"Work with?" He's finished lacing up his boots. "What are you talking about?"

Another yell from downstairs. "It's been a second!"

"Come back tomorrow. I'm going to educate you." Stiles pulls the window open.

Derek, startled, pauses with one hand on the sill. "You're going to—"

"Yeah! Tomorrow! I'll be here!" Now he actually puts a hand on Derek's chest and pushes. "Gotta deal with my dad. See ya!"

Derek clambers backwards onto the roof to keep from falling over. The window slams shut in front of him and locks. He hears Stiles's voice: "Yeah, Dad, what?"

He drops down to the ground, careful to avoid the shrubs. Striding back to his car, he reflects upon the momentousness of the situation that faces him. Once is an isolated incident. He can deal with once. But he is coming back tomorrow, apparently, for another movie, because he didn't even get a chance to negotiate, and he doesn't want to keep disappointing Stiles. Not to mention the whole 'education' angle implies a long-term commitment.

_Commitment._ Derek shakes his head violently, slides into the driver's seat.

On his way back, he also reflects upon how this supposedly earth-shaking situation is just a series of movie nights. He is an Alpha. He has fought other Alphas and won. He is a credit to the Hale name and to werewolfkind.

And he's afraid of a sixteen-year-old boy who drives a turquoise Jeep and thinks gummy worms are the greatest delicacy on the planet.

Stopped at a red light, Derek squeezes his eyes shut.

_How did I get here?_

—

The next night is Shadow of a Doubt.

It's a good one. Derek gets goosebumps. He smiles. Turns out it's fun to get scared when there's nothing at stake. He catches Stiles looking at him once or twice. Stiles says he's watching for a reaction. Eventually Derek decides to stop catching him at it.

Thursday night is Brick. Stiles is already tired of black-and-white. Derek is mystified for a portion of it, and asks for clarification several times. Stiles is quick to jump in. Derek comes away satisfied. Stiles looks quite proud of himself.

Scott, Allison, and Lydia are going bowling on Friday night, and they've invited Stiles. (Derek has given his blessing by this time for Scott to leave the house.) After they finish Brick, Stiles tries to convince Derek to come along. "Come on, it'll be fun! You can use your magic werewolf powers to kick everyone's ass!"

"Stiles. Do you seriously think I would even _consider_ putting on a pair of _bowling shoes_ for anything other than a life-or-death situation?"

"But Derek. If you don't come with us, I'm pretty sure you _are _going to die."

Derek raises an eyebrow.

"From being a _total square!_" Stiles whines, smacking the bedspread for emphasis. "Come on, you _gotta_ learn to have fun—"

"This is fun, isn't it?" Derek indicates the two of them reclined next to each other and the laptop at the foot of the bed. The Velvet Underground twangs out from the tinny speakers. They're sitting closer together than they were last night.

Stiles pauses, fixes Derek with some frustratingly unreadable expression. "Yeah. This is fun."

"Good. Then I think I'll make it." He stands, perches on the windowsill to lace his boots up.

"Okay, fine. But you better be ready for some Blade Runner Saturday night. Crazy shit goin' down. Blow your mind into last week."

"Now you got my expectations up." He starts working on the other boot. "It had better be really awesome. Or I'm gonna be disappointed."

"Yeah? What happens then?"

Derek bares his fangs in a grin. "You really wanna find out?"

Stiles jumps, scrambles back, nearly falls off the edge of the bed. "Please don't eat me."

"Then don't disappoint me." Derek tips backwards, rolls smoothly off the edge of the roof and lands behind the shrubs in a crouch.

He feels really good until he gets in his car. Then, once again, he wonders what the hell he was thinking.

—

He decides to spend Friday night alone in his train car meditating (brooding, if he's being honest with himself). Those plans are ruined by Erica. Again.

She sits across from him, crosses her legs. "Noticed you haven't been around much lately."

He gives her his best nonplussed look. "Astute of you."

"Noticed you smell like Stiles a lot lately."

He glowers.

Erica's used to that by now. It doesn't even slow her down. "Are you two dating? Because the age of consent here is 18, so, you know—"

"_No,_" he growls, trying to imbue the word with as much finality as he can. "We're not dating."

His vehemence has apparently backfired, because now she looks intrigued. "Are you sure, Derek?" She waits. "Are you _really_ sure?"

Derek can't believe he's doing this. But it's not like there's anywhere else to turn. "…no."

"Ooh, I can totally help with this. What do you two do?"

"Um. We sit on his bed and watch movies."

"That's it?"

Derek is taken aback. It seemed like a pretty big deal to him. "Yeah."

"Well, how close do you sit?" She nods at the space between them. "This close?"

"No."

She crosses the aisle and takes the seat next to him. "This close?

"No." Derek sees where this is going but it's too late to stop it.

She grins slyly, sidles over. Her thigh eclipses his toes. She presses her shoulder against his folded-up knees. "_This_ close?"

He looks away determinedly. "Pretty much."

"Legs touching?"

"Yes." He remembers that from last night, Stiles leaning on him ever so slightly, his knee crooked against Derek's. It was nice.

"Mm. Dating." She nods sagely. "Or as close as you can get without slapping the name on it. You two should get dinner."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Erica. I don't go out."

"Ugh, you are _such_ a stick in the mud." She rolls her eyes dramatically, slumping back against the seat and folding her arms. "Well, if you're not gonna go to a restaurant, at least go _somewhere_. You spend all that time sitting together on his bed and you're gonna get ideas. And like I said, age of consent, so—"

"Erica!"

She laughs at him. "Okay, I'll stop." She levers herself upright. "Seriously, though, good luck. Knock 'em dead, tiger!"

By the time she leaves, he realizes he could probably use her help thinking of going-out ideas. But he doesn't call her back in. He's still got _some_ pride left, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles is freaking out.

Derek wasn't impressed by Blade Runner. (How is that even possible? Stiles can't even imagine what kind of dull-minded person wouldn't like Blade Runner. And Derek may be Mr. Frownywolf, but he's not dull-minded. Probably.) He left with a warning: "Be here tomorrow night. If you're not, I'll hunt you down."

The words were forbidding, but the growly tone did something to Stiles. He went straight up to his room after dinner and hasn't moved since.

The thing is, it's getting late. Derek's usually here around 9, and it's almost 10 already. Stiles paces. Maybe he was misreading things. Maybe Derek doesn't actually feel this whatever-it-is between them, and he's angry at Stiles for coming on to him. Stiles collapses on his bed. He's becoming more and more sure that one of Derek's many threats is gonna come true tonight. He hopes it's not the one about his face. He likes his face. He wants to be pretty when he dies.

There's a tapping at his window.

Stiles is afraid to open it, but he's more afraid of the consequences, so he hauls the thing open anyway.

Derek reaches out and seizes the front of his shirt. "Come on. We're going somewhere."

Stiles grabs Derek's wrist automatically. "Um—where are we—"

"I'm taking you. Let's go."

"Wait—out the window?"

"You bet." Derek pulls. Stiles tumbles onto the roof. Derek pushes the window shut.

Stiles's mouth gapes open. "I—you just locked me out of my own room!"

"Good thing we're not spending any time there then, isn't it?" Derek steps off the edge of the roof.

Stiles scrambles over. Derek's standing there, looking back up at him. "Jump."

"_What?_ Are you—" He stifles the rising hysteria in his voice, switching to a stage whisper. "Are you _crazy? _I'm gonna crack my skull open! Or get impaled on the shrubbery!"

"No you won't." Derek frowns. "I'm gonna catch you."

Stiles can't believe he's trusting with his life the same man who threatens to rip his throat out at least once a night, more if he's in a good mood. Then he remembers that Mr. I'll-Rip-Your-Throat-Out actually _saved_ his life not too long ago, so this whole trust issue thing is really stupid. He stands, squeezes his eyes shut, and steps off the roof.

The fall is pretty short. He lands with a "whuf" in Derek's arms. The werewolf sets him on his feet, grabbing his shoulder to steady him as he tries to regain his balance.

"Wow." Stiles grins like an idiot and can't help it. "That was fun."

"Now you know what it's like to be me." Derek tugs his arm. "Come on."

They spend the first half of the car ride debating the various qualities and failings of Blade Runner. Despite Stiles's unwavering confidence in how much that movie completely, one hundred percent rocks, Derek absolutely refuses to concede that it's worth rewatching. Practically writhing in his seat with how _wrong_ that is, Stiles decides to switch topics and talk about the bowling trip. "It was tons of fun. Lydia kicked all our asses, of course, because she's perfect at everything, but y'know, I think I did pretty good."

Derek glances over. "Did you get second place?"

"Well, no."

"Third?"

"Um."

"You got fourth place?"

"Kinda."

"Weren't there four of you?"

Stiles folds his arms. "Yeah, so? I got 90 whole points. Which is, like, double what I got last time."

Derek snorts. Stiles punches his arm. "Whatever, Derek. I don't have to take lip from you."

But Derek's face grows serious suddenly, dangerous. His voice ratchets low. "Did you just punch me?"

_Shit._ "Sorry!" He flings his hands up in surrender. "It was—"

"Stiles, I'm messing with you."

He rolls back his head and groans. "God, I hate you sometimes."

"You do?"

He's caught. He grins. "Not really. Except when you make fun of Blade Runner."

"Not my fault it's so easy." There's silence for a second. Derek keeps going. "I'm glad you had fun, though. Bowling."

Stiles watches Derek palm the wheel to the left. "Woulda been more fun if you were there."

"What, so you could laugh at how ridiculous I looked?" He puts the car in park and gets out before Stiles can respond.

_That's not what I was gonna say._

There's a big yellow chain strung across the dirt access road in front of them. Derek lifts one end of it with apparently zero effort, carries it to the other side of the road, and dumps the whole thing in a pile. He gets back in the car and drives on. Stiles points at the chain. "Um…are we—"

"Trespassing? Kind of."

"Are we gonna…"

"Get arrested? No." Derek shrugs. "Well, I won't. How fast can you run?"

"Are you kidding? If I get caught, I am _definitely_ ratting you out." He gazes out the window. The forest around them would be pitch-black if it weren't for the headlights. "No way I'm gonna suffer alone."

"I don't think you have anything to worry about." The car trundles over a pothole. The chassis barely moves. Stiles thinks about how the driver's seat of his Jeep would turn into a trampoline if he hit a pothole like that. Derek drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "No one comes out here at night except me."

The road ends at a tiny parking lot next to a cabin. They leave the car. The moon is bright, but Derek takes a flashlight anyway, so Stiles can see. "Follow me."

They walk in silence, but it's a comfortable one. Derek is obviously excited about this, and his good mood is contagious. Stiles feels more and more reassured that he has not just been brought out here for the sake of convenience once Derek kills him for his film-related transgressions and has to dump the body.

The woods are so thick that Stiles is completely taken by surprise when the trees drop away and they come out near the edge of a cliff. Away from the light pollution of Beacon Hills, the stars are astoundingly bright. Stiles turns off his flashlight to see better, and he's so entranced that he doesn't hear Derek say his name, not until the werewolf takes his hand and pulls him forward.

They stand at the edge of the cliff. Looking over, Stiles can see the glinting surface of a river far beneath them, and can hear its rushing when the breeze dies down and stops rustling the leaves of the trees behind him. The other side of the canyon is hundreds of yards away, and the sense of space is incredible, with the dropoff below and the stunning clarity of the sky above.

"Do you see them?" Derek points up at the sky. "Venus and Jupiter. Lined up with the moon."

They're impossible to miss, two bright spots forming a band above the half-moon. It's pretty amazing. Stiles has butterflies bouncing around in his stomach, but in a delightful sort of way. "Derek?"

"Hm?"

"Is this a date?"

Derek gives him a look. "What else would it be?"

"That's what I thought." He lifts Derek's arm up and puts it around his shoulders. He looks up. Derek's smiling. Stiles decides it's time to knock him down a peg. "Gotta admit, though, it would be a lot nicer if I weren't freezing my ass off."

Derek blinks. "Damn. Sorry. Should've said to bring a coat. Want mine?"

Well, Stiles isn't about to say no to that. He accepts the leather jacket. The shoulders are too wide, and he's pretty sure that while it makes Derek look like a badass, it makes _him_ look like a six-year-old who raided his dad's closet. But Derek's in just a Henley now, so Stiles isn't complaining. He puts Derek's arm around himself again and briefly considers putting his hand in the other man's back pocket, but decides that's probably not the smartest idea he's ever had. Not at this point in their relationship. _Relationship_. Is that the right word? Stiles can't keep up with all the crazy terminology the kids are using these days.

Derek tenses.

Stiles feels it, the muscles in the werewolf's arm going rigid against his back. He's afraid he's done something wrong. "What? What is it?"

"Shh." Derek inhales deeply, silently. His head whips to the left. The next thing Stiles knows, Derek's pushing the keys to the Camaro into his hands. "Go back to the car. Now. Wait for me."

Stiles doesn't ask any question, just turns and runs back to the treeline.

He makes it a few steps in, but something stops him. (Who is he kidding? His insatiable curiosity won't let him just run off without finding out what the hell is going on.) So he finds himself a tree to use for a hiding spot and peers out from behind it.

Derek's feet are spread, arms lifted from his sides. Stiles's eyes have adjusted to the dark a little, and he's pretty sure he sees claws.

But what happens next—he doesn't know _what _he sees.

It looks like a bat, or the upper half of a bat, but huge, and it's got…_something_ trailing from it, like the tails of a kite. But its wings disappear when it lands on the cliff, and suddenly it has legs? Stiles squints. _What?_

It laughs (he thinks—it lets out a kind of burbling cackle, which is what he'd imagine a creepy monster thing would sound like when it laughs) and talks in muddied English, as if its mouth were obstructed in some way. "How kind of you to come all the way out here, wolf. So isolated. So far from your pack."

"What do you want?" Derek's snarl here is nothing less than savage. Stiles always thought his growl was menacing, but this is different, this actually scares him. He shrinks back.

The monster speaks with surprising humor and cheer. "I want to hurt you, wolf! I want to hurt you and kill you!"

"Just try." The words are barely intelligible, the snarl eating them, turning them into just the essence. The challenge. He throws himself at the thing.

They engage. It's hard for Stiles to see what's going on—they become one unified silhouette against the moonlight, a roiling tangle of limbs. But the silhouette shrinks suddenly and becomes Derek-shaped, and Stiles realizes Derek's thrown the monster off the cliff and has begun sprinting for the trees.

_Oops._

Stiles is already apologizing when Derek reaches him. "I'm sorry! I just wanted to—"

"Damnit, Stiles, _run!" _Derek shoves him, glances back. Stiles switches on his flashlight and orients himself towards the car, then hears a caustic chuckle behind him, spins around.

The flashlight beam illuminates it. Purplish, mottled skin, a mouth that takes up half its face, a matted mane of dark hair. Its gray-black wings wrap around its abdomen and twist into two columns that make up its legs.

Derek's already swiping at it. Stiles runs.

He's only mostly sure he's heading in the right direction, so he pans the flashlight back and forth, hoping to catch a glimpse of the cabin, or the shine off Derek's car. He does, eventually, far to his left, and tacks, fumbling for the keys.

He keeps the headlights trained on the woods and waits for Derek. The seconds tick by, turn into minutes. Stiles's anxiety reaches unbearable levels, starts tipping over into hysteria. Something moves in the trees. His hands grip the wheel so hard he's afraid his joints will pop. A figure stumbles into the light. Derek. Listing to one side. He staggers, falls to hands and knees, tries to get up. He's not getting up. Stiles is already out of the car.

Derek is heavy. He knows that already. He has barely any help this time. Derek's legs drag, move in uncoordinated jerks. Stiles practically carries him. He almost can't. But he makes it, throws Derek unceremoniously into the passenger seat, scrambles over the hood of the car and gets in the driver's side. He doesn't remember to close his door until halfway through the K-turn, and then they're off, flying down the dirt road.

The potholes jar the car a little harder at this speed. Stiles doesn't care. Something's trying to kill Derek. He drives faster.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** This fic is spending a lot more time in Stiles's headspace than I anticipated. Derek will get some time later, though, I promise.

"Derek?"

They're out of the woods. (Literally. Not figuratively.) Stiles glances over. "What happened? What was that? Are you gonna die? Is it still coming after us? Do you—"

"Stiles!" Derek snaps. His legs are curled up to his chest, and his body is moving oddly, rocking slightly, limbs convulsing.

"Okay, sorry, I'm just kind of _flipping out_ here—" perhaps an understatement, because he keeps thinking Derek is going to die right when they've finally started _actually_ dating, which seems selfish, but it's not, because he's happy for _Derek_, that he's letting himself have something _good_ for once— "so can you at least tell me a _little _bit about what's going on?"

"Got bitten—"

The sentence cuts off, metamorphoses into a growl. Stiles panics some more. "Derek?"

"It _hurts,_ okay? _Fuck!" _He slams his head back against the window. "Venom. Venomous bite."

"So is it fatal?"

"Maybe for humans. I'll survive it." The pained growl again.

"Dr. Deaton might have—"

"_No! _No." Derek exhales in a burst, pants a few times. "Thing might target him."

"So what do I _do?" _Stiles discovers that he's going just above 70 miles per hour. The speed limit is 45. He eases off. "Because you're—_seizing_ or something and I don't—"

"Calm the fuck down, Stiles, okay? That's what you can do."

Stiles is silent for a moment. He doesn't trust himself to say anything.

"Call Scott." Derek's eyes are squeezed shut, and he speaks with effort. "Tell him to go to—the subway station. Take—me there too."

"This thing's after him too?"

"If I'm right, yeah."

Derek sucks in air through his teeth. Stiles wishes for the hundredth time that he could do something about it. But he can't. Can't cure Derek. Can't kill the monster. Can't do a damn thing.

—

Scott's just pulling up on his bike when Stiles arrives. He sees the car, sees Stiles in the driver's seat, does a double take.

Stiles fumbles with the door, wrenches it open. "Could use a little help over here!"

Between the two of them (well, it's mostly Scott, if Stiles is being honest; he can't figure out how he managed to haul Derek to the car all by himself in the first place), they get Derek downstairs, lay him on the mattress sitting on the floor of the break room. His limbs still spasm intermittently. Isaac's the only one around at this time of night, and he joins the three of them. "What the hell happened?"

"Something attacked him." Stiles runs a hand over his shorn hair. "Up by—Tower Woods, I think—"

Scott's eyebrows draw together in confusion. "And he called _you?"_

"No, I was already there—"

"What? Why were you with Derek?"

"Stiles." A strained warning from the Alpha. The venom's obviously sapping his strength.

"Long story." Stiles flaps his hand to deter Scott's questioning. But Isaac's smirking at him. He tries to ignore it. "Well, basically, he won't go to the clinic—"

"Just gotta ride it out." His back arches sharply as he says this, hips lifting off the mattress. " 'S working my muscles. Keep contracting. Can't control them."

He speaks through gritted teeth. It occurs to Stiles that, with this venom, he might simply not be able to un-grit them. But the conditions sounds familiar, and he remembers why, some fragment of knowledge gained from his countless hours plundering Wikipedia for all its secrets. He snaps his fingers. "That's—black widow spiders. When they bite you, that's what happens."

It might just be the venom, but he thinks Derek nods.

Scott turns to him. "Why did you say I was in danger? Is it after me too?"

Stiles has figured it out by now, why Derek only said to alert Scott and not anyone else in their circle. "It's got something to do with that Alpha you pissed off in Bridgewater. He only knows about us three."

"He created it." Derek's on his side, curling up. "He gave it orders."

"Will it come here?" Isaac sounds totally calm. Stiles makes a mental note to ask him how he does that when faced with the threat of a monster that can totally incapacitate the biggest, scariest werewolf Stiles knows.

"Don't think so." He reconsiders. "Maybe. Keep an eye out."

"What does it look like?"

Derek grins, an animal thing, more ferocity than joy. "You'll know it when—you see it."

Isaac stands abruptly and heads back out to the platform. Derek fixes his glare on Scott. "Go with him."

Scott clearly still wants answers, but he leaves anyway. Probably his all-consuming protective instinct kicking in. Stiles lets out a brief sigh. His friend's a dunce, but a compassionate dunce.

"You. You're staying here."

Gruffly delivered, but a surprisingly romantic sentiment. He smiles. It's nice to feel wanted. "It's okay, Derek, I'm not gonna leave you all by your lonesome."

Derek gives him a _seriously? _look. "Stiles. If you go anywhere by yourself, that thing's gonna eat you in two seconds flat."

_Oh. _Perhaps not so romantic then. Stiles rolls his eyes. "Whatever."

He watches, waits. Derek keeps twitching. His veins stand out like they're about to burst through the skin. His paleness has given way to a flushed red. And everywhere, his muscles spasm and seize. Every so often he'll let out a stifled grunt when the pain becomes too much for him to keep a lid on it.

There's nothing else Stiles can do. He reaches for Derek's hand. Derek jerks away. "Don't. I'll end up crushing your fingers to pulp."

An unpleasant thought, to say the least. Stiles withdraws his hand.

—

He dozes, finally. Until something nudges his shoulder and tips him over. He flails. Once his balance has reasserted itself, he blinks up at an amused Isaac and points an accusatory finger. "Hey. Uncalled for."

"It's morning." Isaac grins. Scott's standing by the door.

"You're safe for now." Derek. He's blinking a lot and looks completely drained. His muscles still move on their own, but not as forcefully. "It's not active during the day."

Scott steps forward. "Okay. Do you want to tell me what the hell's trying to kill me now?"

"It's a wingwalker." Derek's quiet, and they all lean in to hear better. "My uncle used to tell us stories. They sleep during the day, but at night their top half separates from the bottom half, and they take flight with their intestines trailing behind them." So _that_ was the odd kite-tail silhouette Stiles saw last night. Intestines? He shudders, extraordinarily grossed out. "They can use their wings as legs, if they want. They're made through a seriously complicated process that involves someone implanting an animal in the stomach of a man—in this case, a spider, apparently—and going through some arcane ritual—I don't know the details." He shakes his head a little. "But it carries out its maker's orders until they're completed or the maker dies, and then it goes off and does whatever the hell it wants." He heaves a sigh. "We need to kill it and then we need to kill the Alpha."

"Okay." Isaac claps his hands together. "So how do we do it? Kill the thing?"

"Find its bottom half. Cover the severed part in ashes." He frowns a little. "Not exactly sure how that works if it's sleeping and its halves are joined together. Maybe you do the severing yourself."

Stiles lets out a strangled "Ew." He can't help it. He remembers when Derek was gonna make him cut his arm off after he got shot with wolfsbane. He imagines cutting through an entire human body would be a lot harder and more time-consuming than cutting through an arm. And also full of more organs and things. Stiles represses the urge to vomit, closely followed by the urge to weep hopelessly at the incredibly strange and unfortunate turns his life has taken since he found out his best friend was a secret werewolf.

Scott shifts uncomfortably at the task facing them. "Okay, well, where do we start?"

"Bridgewater. Go today. Take Erica."

Scott makes a face. "Do I have to?"

Derek's glare is somewhat less potent than normal, but it gets the point across. "Do you wanna not die?"

"Fine, fine." He steps back. "I'll bring Erica."

"And Stiles."

Everyone looks at Stiles, who has rather uncharacteristically just volunteered himself for a dangerous mission. "What?" He shrugs. "Scott, you _know _you're gonna get in over your head and I'll get a phone call from you going 'Help me, Stiles, you're our only hope!', and then I'm gonna end up having to haul ass over to Bridgewater anyway, so you know what, we should just bypass all that and let me come with you."

Scott still doesn't reply, so Stiles pulls out his keys. "Plus, I got wheels."

That pretty much settles it. Isaac goes off to call Erica and Boyd, while Scott gets in contact with Allison so she won't worry when he doesn't show up at school. Leaving Stiles alone with Derek again.

He inches closer to the werewolf. "Feeling better?"

"Marginally." Derek shuts his eyes for a moment. "Can't wait 'til I can pass the fuck out. I feel like I've been carrying a semi for eight hours straight."

Stiles reaches out and ruffles his hair, knowing full well that Derek doesn't have enough muscle control to stop him. He's hoping for some kind of tender response, but instead receives a glare infused with more wrath than he thought Derek had left in him. Ah well. Not entirely unexpected. He grins anyway, enjoying this new power over the Alpha. "It's okay, sweetie." He leans in, puts on a cutesy voice. "I won't let the big scary bat-creature eat you up."

Derek's hand shoots up and goes for his throat. Stiles leaps backwards in an impressive display of athleticism, but Derek's hand stays there, half-extended, slowly clenching back into a fist. He realizes Derek could definitely have grabbed his throat from that distance, but chose not to, as he risked crushing Stiles's neck without meaning to.

Derek takes a few deep, labored breaths. "Don't ruffle my hair." Another breath. "And don't die."

"I'll be fine." He tries to sound more confident than he feels. "If the Alpha shows up, I'll just throw Scott at it."

Derek actually cracks a smile. "Better not try that with Erica. She'll turn right back around and rip you a new one."

"Well, I'll throw Scott at her too."

"Hey. I thought we were friends." Scott's back. He doesn't look happy.

Stiles frowns. "What? What's wrong?"

"Um…Allison's coming. I told her what we were doing and she said if I even think of leaving without her, she…um, wouldn't be happy."

Stiles lifts one eyebrow. A leaf from Derek's book. "Did she threaten to withhold sex?"

"_What?" _Scott is completely flustered. "Stiles—that's—why would—"

"She didn't, didn't she?" He groans, rolls his eyes. "Scott, you are _so_ easy to manipulate. Although I guess you don't really have a brain, so the only thing you have left to think with is your—"

"_Stiles!"_

"Okay, okay, sorry, that was a little harsh." He glances sideways. Derek's smiling to himself again. Mission accomplished.

"Great. Let's go." He hauls himself to his feet, teeters, pauses. "Shit. My dad."

"Don't worry about it, I called him already." Scott still seems put out.

"Oh. Thanks, buddy. Guess I was wrong about you not having a brain."

"Damn right you were." All is forgiven. This is routine by now. "Let's get going."

"Right." Stiles preemptively winces. He might regret this. "I'll catch up with you outside."

Scott looks at him, looks at Derek, looks back at him. Stiles tries to keep his face neutral as a storm of internal cursing erupts inside him. He definitely regrets this. Scott nods. "Right. Of course." He puts his hands out. "I'll leave you two alone."

He heads out. Derek's glaring again. "Goddamnit, Stiles."

"Sorry, okay?" He kneels. "You sure you're gonna be safe here?"

"Yeah. I got Isaac and Boyd keeping watch. Go kill this thing."

"Right." Stiles hesitates, then goes to leave.

Derek calls out from behind him. "And don't die. Seriously."

Apparently that's the only display of affection he's gonna get.

It's fine. That's about all he could ask for.


	5. Chapter 5

**TRIGGER WARNING:** implied intent of sexual assault.

Erica shuts her phone. "Rotten fruit."

Stiles wrinkles his nose. "Is that a new expletive or something? Because I'm pretty sure I can think you up a better one in about four seconds."

"No, smartass, that's what the monster smells like." She twists her body to face the back seat, where Scott and Allison are holding hands. "Got that, loverboy? Keep your nose peeled for rotten fruit."

"Okay, yeah, I got it."

Stiles checks the rearview mirror. The Jeep's top is down. Scott's leaning against his door, eyes shut. Erica's doing the same. It's kinda weird. "So, Allison." Stiles sends a glance over his shoulder. "How'd you manage to get outta school? Won't your parents flip out?"

"It's fine. Lydia's covering for me." She has to raise her voice; the Jeep's trundling along at a pretty good clip, and the wind steals her words away from her.

"Oh, good. Looks like you'll get away scot-free! Except not, because Scott's here too, so you're not _Scott_-free…" He trails off at the look she's giving him in the rearview mirror. She's right. That was pretty inexcusable. Erica socks him in the arm to corroborate. The Jeep swerves.

He can't help it if he's off his game. First of all, there's the stupid werewolf he's sort of dating who has an extremely flattering but horribly stressful penchant for getting himself hurt to save Stiles's skinny ass. Stiles's grip on the wheel tightens a little. If only he'd run straight for the car. Then maybe Derek wouldn't have to stay behind and hold it off. He forces himself to take a deep breath. It already happened. No use in blaming himself.

_Yeah. Like that line of logic ever works on me._

He takes another deep breath. _Not now. Just—not now_.

Second is the fact that he's beginning to profoundly regret volunteering for this expedition. He did it because he felt useless and weak but failed to reflect upon the fact that one or both of these descriptors might actually be accurate in the context of their current dilemma. He can't smell rotten fruit from a mile away. He can't get thrown off a building and survive. He can't stare a werewolf down and put an arrow in its heart without thinking twice.

The area has turned residential, and Stiles slows the Jeep accordingly. He _can _drive. And make awful puns. But that's about it. If they come up against the Alpha, and Scott and Erica can't get there in time, he's screwed.

_You know, part of me hopes your friend never shows up. Then you're mine._

The Alpha's eyes were the darkest eyes Stiles had ever seen.

"Stiles!"

He slams the brakes. The stoplight's red. He hadn't noticed. Erica and Scott, thrown forward by the inertia, are yanked out of their trances. Allison leans on the shoulder of the driver's seat. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah. Whoa. Sorry. Wasn't paying attention."

He's taking them in the general direction of the Alpha's home base, despite the fact that every cubic inch of him is screaming _run away._ He doesn't know the way exactly; when he drove Derek back to Beacon Hills, he just picked a direction until he found a main road.

He takes a turn at random. Another one. More red lights. He stops this time. Scott taps the back of his seat suddenly. "Left. Go left."

Erica whirls. "What? I don't smell anything."

"Well, I do! Stiles, take a left."

"Okay, okay, I got it." He goes left.

Another blocks. Erica stiffens, grumbles. "Yeah. I smell it."

Stiles glances in the rearview mirror again. Allison's smiling at Scott and stroking his hair. He's smiling back. It's mildly sickening. Stiles takes a moment to imagine himself and Derek in the same position. _That_ provokes in him quite the opposite reaction. Although he can't think of any circumstance in which Derek would smile at him adoringly and stroke his hair. And he suspects that if _he_ tried stroking _Derek's_ hair, he'd get his fingers bitten off.

Scott has apparently managed to un-distract himself. (Stiles isn't quite at that point yet.) "You should stop the car. In case the Alpha's hanging out near the monster thing. He knows what you smell like."

"Right," Stiles mutters, and pulls over. "Won't he know you too?"

Scott's silent for a minute. "Not sure. I never met him. Just one of his Betas."

"Let's not risk it. Me and Allison can take care of this." Erica reaches for the floor and picks up a Mason jar half-full of gray-black ash. "Right?"

"Um—" Allison's gaze lingers on Scott. "I guess if he's after you, then it's safer for you to stay here."

"And safer for Stiles!" He raises his hand. "I like the plan where I don't get stranded all by my delicate self in the same town as the creepy-ass werewolf who tied me up in his basement for six hours!"

"It's okay, I got your back." Scott grins. "I know I don't have the tall, dark and mysterious thing down, but I can still kick some ass."

The secret is definitely out. Stiles groans. "He's gonna kill me."

Allison pipes up with a "Huh?"

"Stiles and Derek are dating," Erica informs her helpfully.

Stiles smacks his forehead into the steering wheel.

Allison does not find this fact nearly as amusing as Erica does. "_What?" _

"Why. Scott. Why did you do that." Stiles hugs the steering wheel for another second, then rights himself, clambers around in his seat. "And also, you are being surprisingly nonchalant about this. _Suspiciously_, I might even say."

"I—" Scott looks abashed, then softens. "Stiles, I'm just—happy for you." He fumbles for words. "I know me and Derek don't always get along, but you've been in such a great mood these past few days, at school, and when we were bowling, and—I'm just happy for you, okay? That you got something good out of this."

This is one of the very few times in Stiles's life when he has nothing to say. Because "this," the whole damn werewolf thing, has turned his entire life upside down—his dad lost his job, his best friend seems to get into some new trouble every single day, and he himself has nearly been killed so many times he's lost count. But Scott got superhuman powers and a sincerely amazing girlfriend out of the deal, whereas Stiles—nothing.

Nothing until a certain hot broody werewolf agreed to spend one Tuesday night watching a dumb movie with him.

"Listen, guys, I'd actually love to talk about this, because Derek's been super shy all week and it's really fucking cute, but us ladies have a job to do." Erica hops out of the car and pulls Allison's door open. "Scott, stay here and make sure Stiles doesn't die, because if he does then Derek's probably gonna blame himself for some totally unknown reason and then he'll be super _emo_ and that will _not_ be cute at all."

As she and Allison retreat down the sidewalk, Stiles hears them talk: "Is he really dating Derek?" "Oh, yeah! Derek's been getting in at, like, midnight, and he always reeks of Stiles, so I don't know what they've been doing, because I told him to keep his clothes on, but—"

Stiles buries his face in his hands.

Scott's in the front seat now, and he grasps Stiles's shoulder reassuringly. "It's okay. It was gonna get out anyway. Pretty hard to keep secrets from werewolves."

Stiles moans in reply.

"But really, man…" Scott sighs. "Did it have to be Derek?"

"I can't help it, okay?" He slumps down in his seat. A bicyclist whizzes by them on the street, decked out in skintight navy blue. "He's just—I know he puts on the big scary Alpha persona all the time, but that's not the whole story. And yeah, his first response to pretty much anything he doesn't like is threatening your health and safety, and making him smile is harder than the freaking Water Temple in Zelda 64, but when you do, it's just—_great_, because he totally changes, he doesn't have to be an Alpha anymore, or even a Hale, he's just _Derek. _And I like Derek. A lot." Stiles pauses a moment for breath. "Also his stupid freaking face."

"His…"

"Have you seen it? Because that is no ordinary face. That is a great face. You don't look at it for a while, and you think, well, maybe I'm exaggerating, maybe it's not actually _that_ great. And then you look at it again and it is _great._ It is _that_ great."

Scott's chuckling. "Okay, yeah, I can see what you mean."

It's nice to hear some support from his avowedly straight friend. A dog-walker passes on the opposite side of the street. Her German shepherd barks a few times in their direction (probably Scott's fault).

"Not gonna lie, though, I'm kinda surprised he likes you this much." Scott amends his statement. "I mean—not like you're not likable. Because you're an awesome dude and all. But he just seems…very serious."

"He is very serious. But I am—" He ticks them off on his fingers. "—a secret genius, and _hilarious_, and really just goddamn adorable all around, so I'm honestly surprised he managed to resist my charms this long."

Scott laughs. "Yeah, Stiles, you've got it all except for the modesty."

Stiles shrugs. "I see nothing wrong with this picture."

He's not sure why the jogger catches his attention. Maybe because they usually

jog on the left side of the street, but this one's coming up behind them. Stiles recognizes the man the second before he wraps a hand around Scott's neck and throws him out of the car.

_The Alpha._

It's too late to drive away now, with Scott rolling across some unfortunate civilian's front yard. And Stiles may scare easily, but not enough to ditch his best friend. He scrambles over the edge of his door, putting the body of the Jeep between himself and the Alpha.

The werewolf stares him down, grinning. If it weren't for that sick expression, he might be just another suburbanite: clean-shaven, mop of dirty blond hair, t-shirt advertising some company Stiles hasn't heard of. He vaults the car—or starts to; Scott's up by now, grabbing his leg and yanking him back.

This is not good. This is _very_ not good. Scott won't last long against an Alpha. Not to mention they're out in the open and everything. Stiles sinks down against the front left tire, pulls out his phone, dials Allison. There's some metallic-sounding thunking from the other side of the Jeep. He squeezes his eyes shut. _No no no, please don't hurt it, I can't afford any more body work right now…._

"Stiles? What's—"

Allison. He splutters out their situation. "Alpha! Here!"

"Okay. Stay there. We're on our way back."

He pockets his phone before the Alpha grabs him by the front of his shirt and starts dragging him around the Jeep. Stiles grasps for the bumper, the tire, anything to use as a handhold, but he can't get purchase. He sees Scott, lying over the curb, blood draining down his face and pooling on the asphalt. The Alpha grabs him too.

They're dragged across the lawn, Stiles twisting and fighting until the Alpha leans down and bounces his head against the concrete stairs. Things go fuzzy for a few seconds. When his vision refocuses, he sees the Alpha's face, inches above his own.

"Hey there, kid."

That voice. Stiles had nightmares about it for days, until Derek started coming over. He's afraid. He's beyond afraid. The Alpha leans closer. Stiles glances down and sees the werewolf's kneeling over his body. The proximity makes this unendurable, and he only half-manages to suppress the sob that comes roiling up his throat.

"Jesus, calm down. I haven't even hurt you yet. Well. Much." The Alpha hooks his fingers in Stiles's collar, traces them up his throat.

It feels like electricity. It feels like the ends of live wires, current crawling up the strings of his nerves and spidering out to every part of him. His skin senses everything, the inner surface of his clothes, the barest brush of air. His muscles tense like Derek's under the wingwalker venom. His brain preemptively starts to white out, to protect him from whatever's coming next.

This isn't how this goes.

Stiles swallows. His Adam's apple bobs under the Alpha's fingers.

He's not useless. He's not very strong, and not very sturdy, and he scares just like any normal human being, but he's _not_ useless.

So he does the only thing he can think of, and talks. Anything. Anything to stall until Allison and Erica get back. "How—how did you find us?"

The Alpha barks out a laugh. "Come on. I'd know your scent anywhere." He buries his face in the crook of Stiles's shoulder, inhales deeply. It's too much. The Alpha's treating him like he owns him. Stiles lets out an involuntary noise, a stifled cry. He clamps his mouth shut. No. _This is not how this goes._

He can't physically shove the Alpha off. The werewolf would break his fingers. He makes a stand instead. A token gesture, maybe. It's all he's got. "Get off me."

His voice shivers like a plucked string. The Alpha chuckles, low and lazy, into Stiles's neck. "You gonna make me?"

Stiles hears the growling from his left a second before the Alpha's pulled off him. It's Scott, once more conscious, ready to fight. "Get away from him!"

Stiles scrambles to his feet, bursts out the door. He hears furniture breaking from inside the house. Allison's standing right in front of him, bow drawn. He dives to the side. Scott and the Alpha roll into view through the threshold. Allison looses her arrow. Stiles recognizes the arrowhead. Wolfsbane.

The Alpha roars in pain, throws Scott off.

Erica rushes inside. Stiles can't see them, but he hears the growling, the low rumble of Scott's and the higher, harsher timbre of Erica's. Allison's standing in the threshold now, another arrow nocked. Stiles doesn't move. He doesn't want to show his face and risk provoking the Alpha. Doesn't know why the werewolf seems to have taken to him. He shudders. Shudders harder.

More crashing of furniture. Allison breaks away suddenly, goes to him. "Stiles? You're bleeding." She kneels next to him in the grass, tilts his head, looking for the source of the blood.

"Fine. It's fine," he mumbles. "Just knocked my head, that's all."

Erica emerges from the house, followed closely by Scott. Apparently the Alpha has run off. She taps her foot. "Look, guys, I hate to break up this lovefest, but we really should get out of here in case someone called the cops."

Pragmatic as always. Stiles nods, gets up with Allison's help, stumbles a little, pulls out his keys.

The Jeep's not even dented. That cheers him up a little.

"Did you get to the wingwalker?" He turns the ignition, glances over his shoulder before pulling onto the road.

"Nope." Erica folds her arms. "There were five wolves there. Five, just sitting in the damn house, with the creepy monster thing in the basement. I expected maybe one or two, but there's no way we can do this unless we can match their numbers."

"Well, we have the numbers, right?" Scott seems totally recovered from his head injury, and his shirt doesn't look _too_ bloody, so the fight didn't go as poorly as Stiles was fearing. "I mean, when Derek gets better. Him, the three of us, Boyd, Isaac, that's five plus one Alpha."

"The three of us" meaning "those of us present here minus Stiles." He clenches his jaw. _Useless. _It was a bad idea for him to come here in the first place. He thought he'd be able to help somehow and just ended up being the catalyst for the whole disaster. It makes him angry. He remembers being angry at Derek, two weeks ago, for shoving him around, pretending he didn't matter. It was empowering then, and it's empowering now.

He's going to do something about it. He doesn't know what. He'll be smarter this time, plan it out, optimize. Because thinking's what he's good at. What he's _great_ at. And he'll be damned if he's sitting this one out just because it scares him.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** the monster in this story is based on the Malay myth of the Penanggalan, modified.

Boyd wakes him up in the late afternoon.

Derek refuses Boyd's offer to help him to his feet. It's not a pride thing, and Boyd's smart enough to figure that out; Derek needs to gauge himself, test his condition. He gets to his feet. He doesn't waver.

Not a hundred percent. But seventy, eighty, maybe. That's good enough.

"They didn't kill it."

Not altogether surprising. Derek nods. "I'm going to shower."

Standing under the cold water in the employee locker room (the place still has electricity and plumbing; hot water would be too much to ask for), he examines the state of his body. The old wounds, the Alpha-inflicted wounds, are mostly healed by now. The worst one, a deep slice up the outside of his right thigh, still bothers him some; he keeps his weight off that leg when he can. His scuffle with the wingwalker involved less lacerations than blunt-force trauma—less getting clawed (he was pretty sick of that, after the confrontation with the Alpha) than getting batted into trees by the damn thing's huge wings—so there's not too much to complain about on that front.

The bite mark on his forearm hasn't healed, but the damage isn't serious.

All in all, he's in good shape.

His pack have apparently taken the liberty of ordering pizza. He first smells it while he's putting clothes on, and when he emerges, there's six white boxes sitting on the pile of crates they use for a table. Erica's sitting next to it, her feet propped up. "Hey there, lazybones. 'Bout time you rolled out of bed." She nods over her shoulder, where the other two wolves are standing. "Boyd got tired of listening to your stomach grumbling in your sleep. So we got dinner."

He lifts a hand unconsciously to his stomach. That's mildly embarrassing. But it's a nice gesture. He's still not used to it, being the leader of his own pack. The shouldering responsibility part, that's fine—he's always been willing to take responsibility. Even for things that aren't his fault.

It's the other half, the caretaker half, that doesn't come easy. It's not that the role is difficult to play. They're his pack, and he'd go to any length to protect them without thinking twice. It's the reciprocation. The fact that _they_ care about _him._ He feels like it's dangerous. He's afraid he'll screw up and let them down. It's been so hard not to distance them. He could do it—could turn harsh, cold, push them away. But that would negatively impact the strength of the pack.

And anyway, he deserves this. That's a thought he's been struggling with. _I deserve to not be alone anymore._

"Well, I guess this might be enough." He lifts the entire stack of pizza boxes. "When are yours getting here?"

Isaac and Boyd grin. Erica, however, is not taking this sitting down. "Oh no." She points a finger at him. "I don't care if you're an Alpha. If pizza's on the line, I will kick your ass."

He replaces their dinner, raises his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, fine. Just go easy on me."

He ends up only eating two of the pizzas. (He could probably go for more, but he doesn't want to be in food-coma mode tonight.)

Boyd is relatively ascetic, taking only a few slices; he spends most of the time recounting for Derek the day's events in Bridgewater (Erica is too busy stuffing her face to summarize). Derek absorbs the information, frowning a little when Boyd describes the heavy security around the wingwalker, tensing when he mentions the Alpha showing up. None of this is what he wanted to hear, but it's not entirely unexpected, either. He folds his arms. "We need the others here by sundown."

"Already told 'em."

Of course he did. Boyd could probably run the pack all by himself. "Good."

He spends a little while sparring with them, just to warm himself up, to return his muscles to readiness after their night spent in revolt. He's still sore, definitely. But it's nothing he can't handle.

He's in a good mood until he hears the footsteps coming down the stairs, scents the air.

Blood. Stiles's blood.

He's out of his chair and striding to the entrance before he realizes it.

He goes straight past Scott and Allison. Stiles is bringing up the rear, but he pulls up short when Derek looms in front of him, starts to step back, stops.

He takes Stiles's head in his hands, tilts it a little, sees the ugly spot of dark red under the shorn hair. "You got hurt."

"Yeah, Derek, I know." He puts his hands over Derek's, lifts them gently off. "It's shallow, it's just bleeding a lot."

Derek realizes that he's holding Stiles's hands (or, technically, Stiles is holding his hands), and that everyone can see them. He is suddenly incredibly self-conscious. For some absurd reason, his mind goes to defensive survival mode, and his fangs start to come out when he whips his head around to stare down the rest of the assembled company.

They all look varying degrees of amused. (Most amused is a tie between Erica and Scott. Least goes to Allison. Even the normally inscrutable Boyd is smiling.)

Erica heaves a dramatic sigh. "Calm down, Derek, the entire planet knows you two are dating."

_The entire planet._

"Well, okay, not the entire planet," she amends. "But everyone here."

"Did you—"

"Hell yeah I told them." She raises her eyebrows at him. "Skinny little human boy lands the big bad Alpha of Beacon Hills? Come on. There's no way I can keep that a secret."

Derek hates everything.

Just for a second. Then Stiles pats him on the chest, looking quite proud of himself. That kind of familiarity would have provoked him, once, drawn his fangs out; now it puts him at ease. Stiles grins up at him. "It's okay, Frownywolf. I got no shame."

_Frownywolf?_

At least half the room starts snickering.

Derek hates everything again.

But there's something else, something that impinges on his senses as Stiles walks away. The scent is obscured a little by some fragrance of soap, but it's still there, definitely, and Derek grabs Stiles's elbow.

Scott and Allison have joined the pack by now, having discovered the free pizza, so he has a moment of privacy. "I smell him on you. The Alpha."

All his senses are up now, so he hears the jump in Stiles's heartbeat at the mention of the other Alpha. "Um, yeah," Stiles mutters. "He—found me, I guess, and Scott tried to fight him off, but he got knocked out, and the Alpha grabbed us both, and he was—look, it's fine, we chased him off, don't worry about it."

Derek searches Stiles's face. It's the same expression he had the night Derek rescued him two weeks ago. He still remembers it. _"Are you okay?" "I don't know." _He tries again. "Stiles. Are you okay?"

No answer. His grip on Stiles's arm tightens a little, not as a threat, just out of concern. "Are you—"

"I don't want to talk about it," Stiles says flatly.

Derek's abashed. He's not used to being shut down like that. "But—"

"I don't want to talk about it, all right? Not now." He pulls his arm away gently, moves to join his friends. "Let's just focus on what we're gonna do about this."

Derek just stands there for a moment. He can feel something forming in him, slowly, exactly, a singular perfect crystal. He knows what it is.

Anger.

This is good. Anger is his ally_._ It drives him, focuses him. It's something he can use.

And he's going to use it before the night is over.

—

"Everyone it wants dead is here in this station. It's going to come here tonight. Probably soon."

They're gathered in a circle around the pile of crates. Some sitting, some on their feet. Derek stands a little apart, arms folded. He is in charge. He feels power seething in him, radiating from the surface of his skin.

"We can't kill it. We don't have its lower half. But we can hurt it." He is utterly calm. The anger acts as a lens. Everything focuses in to one single point. "I hurt it, when we fought last night. Not badly. But it bled.

"It doesn't just use its claws. It can unfurl its wings with lightning speed and send you flying across the room. Which makes getting close to it dangerous. But that also reveals its major weakness." He pauses, makes sure they're all paying attention. "The organs. When it's in flight, they hang from it, exposed, but when it walks, they're hidden, gathered up in each leg. So if it unfurls a wing to whack you away, those organs hang free again. I got away last time by leading it into a patch of thorns. When it swung a wing at me, its intestines came free and caught on the thorns."

That's a good memory, its screaming, its wing battering uselessly at the air as it balanced on its one remaining leg. He nearly bares his teeth in a feral grin, but restrains himself. "The most important thing here is: _don't get bitten._ Don't take any risks that _might_ lead to you getting bitten." He holds their eyes, every one in turn. "I'm taking point on this. _I _will get close. Your job is to keep it occupied.

"All I want to do is send it back crippled. Anything else is too dangerous. Especially if we're gonna take on the Alpha tomorrow. I need you all at full strength. Got it?"

Nods all around.

"Good." He gives them the battle plan, instructions for when the wingwalker appears. They listen and accept their assignments with grace; even Scott doesn't look too disgruntled to be taking orders, and Erica is uncharacteristically taciturn, restraining herself from even a single snarky comment. Derek has never been so sure of himself. He is an Alpha. He's ready for this.

"I assume—" Stiles raises his hand. "—that you guys are locking me in a closet or something until this is all over?"

It throws him off. "Well, actually, I was gonna put you in the break room—I mean, this is pretty straightforward, we gotta beat it down—"

"Yeah, I know." He smiles a little, but it's not happy at all, and Derek feels like he's done something wrong. "Good luck." He gets up, goes off toward the break room.

Derek feels his perfect anger start to buckle and warp. Not what he wanted. He goes after Stiles.

"Hey." He pulls the door closed behind them, watches Stiles keep walking until he comes up against the opposite wall, then turn and start pacing restlessly. "What's up with you? I thought you'd wanna be somewhere safe while this is—"

"I know. And I do. Okay? It makes sense. I just—" He's talking with his hands, big gestures. "I _really_ do not like watching people get hurt because of me. Because it seems to be happening a lot lately. Like with Scott, today, getting his head freaking caved in on a curb, and you all sliced up six ways from Sunday—"

"Stiles." Derek steps forward, trying to stem this before it gets going. "We'll be fine. Me and Scott, we're pretty hard to kill, I know you know that—"

"Oh, come on." Stiles advances on him suddenly, grabs his right arm, lifts it. It's crossed a dozen times with defensive wounds, both old and new. What pain it gives him is dull and easily set aside, and Derek hasn't even thought about it. But it looks bad. He'll admit that. Stiles rotates the arm back and forth, displaying the full range of lacerations. "I was there, remember? I saw what kinda condition you were in after the thing with the Alpha. _And_ the thing with the wingwalker. I still see you limping from those claw marks in your leg. Don't try to BS me, I _know_ how bad it was."

"_You_ know—" Derek jerks his arm away. "Goddamnit, Stiles, I don't like getting clawed or bitten or poisoned either! And yes, it fucking _hurts_, which, as you just said, you're perfectly aware of, but we're both targets now, so all I can do is keep _you_ alive. Because if I wasn't here, you'd be dead ten times over, but you know what, I am, I'm here to take the brunt of everything, and_ I'll_ be just goddamn fine. And I'm happy—_happy_—to get beat up a little if it means the difference between you living and dying. Look, this isn't your fault, and it sure as hell isn't mine, but we're stuck in it anyway, so just deal with it and _let me do this_."

He stares Stiles down; Stiles drops his gaze, backs off. "Okay. I get it." He takes a deep breath. "But I'm coming with you to Bridgewater tomorrow."

Derek rolls his eyes, growls in a short burst. "Yeah, we saw how well that worked last time—"

"That's the point!" Stiles is adamant here. "The Alpha is—drawn to me for some weird reason, so if I come with you guys, then I can lure him out—"

"I'm going to attack his pack. I think he'll want to be there for that."

"Look, this isn't exactly a sure thing, right? I mean, you have four werewolves and Allison, but your pack's still, well, sort of—"

Derek grits his teeth. "Untrained?"

"Yeah. Exactly. _You're_ gonna have your hands full, too, if the Alpha shows up like you say, and who's gonna get to the monster?"

"You just said the Alpha was drawn to you. Meaning I'm gonna have my hands full keeping him away from you instead of just trying to kill him—"

"No, Derek, you're going to _let_ him go after me and kill the monster yourself." Stiles is glaring at him with more intensity than he's ever seen before. This is not the kid who shrinks back at idle threats about throat-biting or head-ripping. "And then you're gonna come back for me because we've only been on, like, one real date and _that_ got all shot to hell when the crazy Batman intestine thing tried to eat you, and I want to go on more dates with you except not when you're being a self-righteous asshole who doesn't trust me to pull my own weight."

And Derek remembers that Stiles isn't one of his Betas. Stiles doesn't take orders from him. Stiles is also certainly smarter than him and, from the look of things, possibly braver. He shuts his eyes briefly in exasperation. "I just…don't want you to get killed."

"Yeah, I can see that." Stiles indicates Derek's form, the marks of old wounds that pattern his arms and cross the exposed V of his chest. "But I won't. Get killed, I mean. Promise. Just take care of the monster, leave the Alpha to me."

"Fine." He's not happy about this. He's _really_ not happy about this. Especially because, if he tries, he can still smell the Alpha on Stiles under the fabric softener and lemongrass soap. But this isn't his decision.

He lays a hand on Stiles's shoulder, gently, lets it slide down his arm, the only gesture of affection that's even close to natural for him. But Stiles takes Derek's hand in both of his own, even as his defiance falters, nervousness showing through. He looks like he's about to say something.

But Derek smells it first. A faint sickly sweetness.

He strides out of the room, hears the door shut behind him.

His pack are assembled, still laughing with each other, Scott and Allison sitting on their own off to the side. Obviously they don't know it's coming yet. "It's here!" Derek barks, and that's enough to jolt everyone to readiness. The four wolves each take a corner of the platform; Allison ducks into the subway car; he catches sight of the head of her arrow poking out from one of the windows.

Derek stands at the entrance. His claws are out already. His blood is up.

The wingwalker makes it way languidly down the stairs.

It's an intimidating sight, even under the bright fluorescent lights, maned, fanged, nearly seven feet tall; but Derek sees the details now, its narrow shoulders, its oddly feminine face, the luxuriant shine of its twisted-up wings.

"Hello, wolf." It smiles at him, almost sultry. "How are you feeling? I must say, I'm surprised to see you on your feet so soon. My venom is quite potent."

The monster's right. Derek's realizing now how he wasn't being honest with himself earlier. His movements are stiff, fine for sparring against his Betas, but perhaps not much more; he can still feel his muscles rebel and pull against him intermittently. But he's not about to tell the monster that.

So instead he faces it, stands square, and roars.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Same warning applies here as in chapter 5.

His senses are firing at a thousand percent.

He sees the displeasure flash across the wingwalker's face for a split-second before it leaps at him.

He's ready for this, twists sharply to avoid one outstretched set of claws and ends up behind it, recognizes this position from their last encounter and hits the floor as one wing snaps out and swipes at the air where he was just standing. The wing ends up near Isaac's corner, and Isaac pursues, piercing it through with his own claws, drags back so the monster can't withdraw it. Derek sees in front of him the dangling organs, the soft tissue, and he pushes himself to his feet.

But the monster adapts well, leaping away from him on its one remaining leg while twisting up its extended wing. It launches through the air, pulled toward Isaac by the force of the coiling. Derek freezes, because for the space of that moment, he doesn't know if Isaac will follow his instructions, will resist the instinct to engage.

Isaac scrambles away. Derek's already halfway there, takes his place.

Having the corner at his back limits his movements, but it limits the monster's, too, denying it the space it needs to use its wings to its full effect. Derek fights with a killing clarity. His anger is his anchor, and he feels it like a second skeleton. His strikes hit hard and precise; he sees cues in the wingwalker's movements and his body reacts before he consciously processes them. This is what he was missing last time, when he ran back to the treeline and found Stiles still standing there instead of hidden somewhere safe; then, he was scared—didn't know what this thing was or why it was trying to kill him, or if it had friends and he'd just sent Stiles off to die bleeding and alone. He was on his heels from the start, and the wingwalker never gave him a chance to get his balance.

But now he's the one ripping this thing's feet right out from under it.

It squeals in pain and jerks forward all of a sudden, and Derek takes the opportunity to snap at its throat. It dodges narrowly, tips to one side, and Derek sees the arrow shaft protruding from its back. It spins a wing out, and another arrow clatters to the ground, caught in midair. There. Its organs exposed. Derek drops to the ground, rolls under it, grabs at the vulnerable organs. It squeals again, tries to yank its wing back; but his pack is there, all three of them, their claws piercing the extended wing, gathering the thick membrane in fistfuls to secure their hold.

Its face is utterly distorted with rage, and it dives down, intending, Derek realizes, to bite him again. His hands are full, and he won't move fast enough to avoid the venomous teeth; but it topples sideways, rolling away in a blur as Scott tackles it to the ground. But Derek holds tight to whatever's in his hands, and its viscera are dragged out of its body, spilling across the floor in its wake.

Its scream is so loud, so incredibly piercing, that Derek reflexively releases his grip and claps his hands over his ears. But he does not close his eyes, pushing himself to a crouch, staying on guard as it gathers its damaged insides as best it can and half-crawls up the stairs (the rest of his pack are also clutching their ears, trying to mitigate the damage from the scream).

But it's running away, and he's won.

The scream dies as it reaches the top of the stairs, and he roars after it, roars with every ounce of breath he can draw. He's never felt so powerful.

Someone's trying to talk to him. Not important. He ignores it. He goes to the break room.

Stiles is sitting against the wall and scrambles to his feet when Derek walks in, his face opening in surprise. "Oh my God, you—"

But Derek cuts him off by leaning down and splitting his mouth with a kiss.

His senses are firing at a thousand percent, but it's not enough. He presses deeper into Stiles's mouth, lifts the hem of his shirt to grasp his hips. Skin. Cool to the touch. His thumbs find the ridges of bone, indent the flesh.

But there's a sudden pressure on his chest. Hands, trying to push him away. Stiles manages to break the kiss. "Derek, st—"

Derek recaptures his mouth. His fingers are digging into Stiles's waist now, his grip tightening. Stiles tries to escape, but he's pinned against the wall with nowhere to go. He breaks the kiss again, with effort. "Derek, stop. _Stop._"

Derek moves lower, running his tongue up Stiles's neck. A contented growl ripples up from deep in his chest. Stiles is still trying to push Derek away, more forcefully now, but he's no match for a werewolf's strength, and Derek's grip on his hips only tightens further.

The door swings open and bangs against the wall.

"Hey! Get off him!"

Derek doesn't relinquish Stiles, but turns his head and fires a full-throated snarl at Scott. The rest of the pack is there too, and Allison, her bow drawn, and he sees the fear flickering on their faces, and knows he triggered it. That gives him a fierce satisfaction. He returns his attention to Stiles, but now Isaac calls him out. "Derek!"

He turns, slowly, letting a low growl boil up in him.

Isaac's standing in front of the pack, skinny Isaac, who wouldn't last thirty seconds in a fight against him. "Yeah, you beat the wingwalker, congratulations. But what about the Alpha who kidnapped your boyfriend in the first place? Because he's definitely still out there, probably coming up with some other way to get his hands on Stiles right now—"

Derek hadn't even thought about that, but the other Alpha's face appears suddenly in his head, the smug smile, the stupid mop of blonde hair, the leering words.

"—so if you're still thinking of killing him—"

"I'm gonna rip his throat out."

Words. Derek blinks, shakes his head. Then he realizes what's just happened.

He lost control.

He lost control and started mauling Stiles. Didn't care that Stiles was trying to shove him off. Left the human part of himself somewhere out on the platform.

He jerks his hands away from Stiles as if he's been burned, backs up, keeps going until he hits the opposite wall. For a moment, only one thought pulses in his head: _this isn't happening._

"Goddamnit."

His mind won't coalesce, won't even let him start processing this. He goes to leave, but a solid hand lands on his chest, and it _hurts_ for some reason; Boyd, stopping him. "Whoa there. You're not—"

"Get off me." The wolf is still surging strong in his blood, and it comes out as a snarl as he pushes past Boyd. But he stumbles suddenly, and his pack catch him, all three. He looks down at himself.

Boyd sighs. "Like I was about to say, you're not in good shape."

It's true. He's covered in claw marks and his own blood. When did that happen?

"Okay then. Why don't we just take it easy." Boyd hooks one of Derek's arms around his neck, starts to carry him out.

Derek can't help it. He glances over his shoulder.

Stiles is with Scott and Allison, wiping blood from his lip. The blood from the wingwalker, maybe, what was left of it in Derek's mouth after he bit the thing; or maybe Stiles's own blood, because Derek's fangs were out and he wasn't gentle.

_This isn't happening._

—

The first aid kit in Boyd's truck has a stitching kit, because Boyd is prepared for anything. He's going to try regular sewing stitches, but Isaac says that nurses always used some special suturing technique when they were sewing him up, though he doesn't remember exactly what it looks like.

Derek just wants to get this over with.

One instructional Youtube video and sixty minutes later, Derek's all put back together again. (Scott and Allison have left, and they took Stiles with them. Thank God. He has literally no idea what he could possibly say to Stiles after—what he did.) Derek barely says two words through the entire process, and the pack doesn't push. Which means they can tell how shaken he is. He almost wishes they'd talk at him instead. But Isaac and Erica stay the whole time Boyd's putting the stitches in, and he finds that it's comforting to have them there.

It's close to midnight before they leave him alone.

He'll need more ash for tomorrow, since Erica left their supply in Bridgewater, so he goes out to find some wood to burn, piles it on the subway platform, spritzes it with some lighter fluid, and tosses a match on it. It flares up with a burst of crackling.

He never liked staring into fires. Not after his whole family was consumed by one. But he does it now, because it forces him to think about something else.

In this case, what went wrong after he beat the wingwalker.

He tries to recall how he felt after the fight, and it's hard, because he was so _animal_ at that point. But that elation, that savage triumph, was so pure, so intense, and he just wanted to feel _more. _Better. More powerful. More _anything._

And apparently Stiles is now the one who moves him most strongly.

Derek buries his face in his hands. Stiles, pushing him away, trying desperately to escape despite being pinned there against the wall. _"Derek. Stop. _Stop._" _

He can't believe he did that.

He carries guilt with him everywhere, wakes up with it in the morning and stares it in the face as he goes to sleep. It's like his shadow, or a weight around his neck, or a vice constricting his lungs down to nothing; on different days, each of these is accurate. But it's old guilt, and familiar—though Laura's death whispers a little darker, weighs a little heavier, squeezes a little tighter.

This, his assault on Stiles, is new. This is a vile, coppery taste in the back of his throat—like blood, but hotter and more bitter. The fire's going more strongly now, and he's too close, can feel the burning on the backs of his hands and his forearms. He doesn't move. Maybe it'll help.

"You know, it's like, sixty degrees outside. This probably isn't necessary."

Derek's reaction is visceral, not something he can contain; he curls one hand into the other, squeezes so hard his knuckles feel like they're shifting out of place. "What are you doing here?"

"Couldn't sleep." Stiles is standing above him, leans against the column. Derek doesn't look up. "Thought you might be awake."

"I slept all day. Of course I'm awake." But his voice is quiet and lacks bite.

The fire crackles. Stiles crosses one foot over the other. "Are you okay?"

And this is so absurd, so incredibly unfair, that Derek's on his feet before he's made the conscious decision to stand. "Am I okay? Am _I _okay? I practically force myself on you like that and you're asking—" But he realizes that he's got Stiles trapped between him and the column, and this is bad, this is exactly what he should _not_ be doing, and he backs off so quick he almost steps into the fire.

Stiles looks a little fearful but under control. "Do you know what happened to you?"

Derek rolls his eyes, turns away. "I was stupid. That's what happened. I gave myself over too much and then let my anchor go. I was just so goddamn happy I kept the thing away from you, my anger just vanished, and the wolf took over." And completely obliterated the human part of him. He shakes his head. "I've always been able to keep my cool. I can't even remember the last time I lost control." He runs a hand through his hair. "If Isaac wasn't so quick on his feet and figured out he had to get me angry again—goddamnit. Goddamnit."

"Well, I _was_ pretty scared."

Derek turns.

Stiles slides down the column, sits at its base. "Because you came in covered in blood, and your eyes were all red, and your fangs were still out, but it—and you wouldn't do that." He tilts his head back, looks Derek in the eye. "I know you well enough to know you wouldn't hurt me like that."

"I hurt you?"

"Um—oh. No, I mean, it's just a couple bruises, nothing serious." He pats the spot on his hip. The copper taste heats up in the back of Derek's throat. "But I knew it—it wasn't you. So yeah, in the moment, I was scared. But I know you're not gonna do that again. So it's okay now."

For a moment, the forgiveness makes it worse. Because he did something horrible, something wrong, to the boy he likes a lot, and he deserves to be punished for that. But guilt makes him sick in everything but body, and he's been sick for six long years. This is not something that has to darken his every step. This is something he can fix right here and right now. He meets Stiles's eyes again. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, Sourwolf, I knew that already." Stiles knocks on the concrete floor next to him. "You're too far away. C'mere."

So Derek obeys, sitting against the column. After a moment, Stiles lifts Derek's arm and puts it around his own shoulders. "Hey, Derek? In the future, do this on your own, okay? I like it. It's nice."

"Sorry. Still learning."

"Learn faster." Stiles leans into him with a theatrically exaggerated nuzzling motion that makes Derek grin despite himself. He gazes into the fire. Maybe it can mean something else. Not his lost family. Not the survivor's guilt. Maybe it can mean tonight. Sitting in a dingy, abandoned subway station with the boy he likes a lot leaning into him, warm and solid.

"God." Stiles twists around. "Okay, having rock-hard pecs is super hot and all, but they do _not_ make a great pillow." He pats Derek's chest. "Eat more ice cream and dial back the working out. I need a soft, yielding layer on which to rest my head."

"Stiles, if you're falling asleep, I have an actual bed."

Stiles snorts. "You mean that sad excuse for a mattress in the break room?"

"I can guarantee you it's a lot more comfortable than me."

Stiles groans, heaves himself to his feet. "Okay, fine." He stretches. "You coming?"

What kind of question is that?

Derek stands, grabs Stiles's hand. It's a spontaneous decision, but this whole dating thing is turning out to be a lot of fun, and he's trying to get better at it. Anyway, the gesture makes him feel weirdly adolescent again, in a good way.

Stiles does manage to find a comfortable spot to lay his head, in the crook of Derek's shoulder. Derek knows they only have a few hours before Stiles has to go sneak back into his house, but that's okay. That's enough.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **This chapter will switch between Derek's and Stiles's headspaces. It is a long-ass chapter and is the penultimate chapter. I am writing a shorter epilogue that should be up sometime within the next few days. I hope you all enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

A last warning: quite a bit of goriness later on. Beware.

—

Stiles leaves around 5 in the morning, a loss that reminds Derek just how much nicer it is to not sleep alone. But he's back just a couple hours later to deliver a message from Scott.

Derek is incredulous. "A _test?"_

"Yeah. Econ. He's basically failing. Can't miss it."

"Stiles—the longer we wait, the stronger the monster's gonna be."

"Well, we're both skipping practice, so we should be here by, like, 3?"

Derek fumes silently. He can't very well go pull Scott out of school—doesn't want to risk even more negative attention. And they can't afford to go one soldier short. But if he's being honest with himself, he could use the extra rest; last night's wounds are mending more slowly than he'd like. "Fine. But if the damn monster hurts anyone, I'm taking it out on Scott."

Stiles winces. "Just try and go easy, okay? You've dealt with the werewolf thing your whole life, but he's just a baby wolf. And high school's got enough problems already without 'secretly concealing feral beast nature from the rest of the planet' on top of it."

"Yeah, yeah." Derek remembers what high school was like. But that was a different world. "Get here as early as you can."

"Okay." But Stiles doesn't leave, and this is just like that first night Derek came over, like they're both expecting something more. Derek makes the decision, but Stiles moves first, leaning up a little to give him a quick peck on the lips before turning and jogging back up the stairs.

Derek smiles, and lets himself keep smiling.

—

They leave at half past 3.

Bridgewater's a little over an hour away (or, if you drive like Derek, a little under). He glances in the rearview mirror occasionally to make sure Stiles is keeping up. Erica's lounging in the front seat next to him, fiddling with the radio, and he wishes it was Stiles sitting there—not even so they could talk, or hold hands, or anything like that; Derek just likes being near him. But Stiles is the only one who's got access to a car during the day. So it's like this.

The closer they get, the more Derek feels his blood rising. He knows he's hurt, can feel it in his leg when he accelerates, in his shoulders when he turns the steering wheel; but he's in a killing mood. The Bridgewater Alpha won't make the morning.

When they get into Bridgewater, he goes partly by memory, partly by his nose; his senses are sharper than those of his Betas, and he smells the rotten-fruit scent on the air. Red lights barely enter his consciousness, only enough to make sure he's not going to crash into anything. He's pretty sure Stiles isn't too happy about having to follow him like this.

When they get there, he barrels up the driveway and barely waits for the car to stop before throwing it into park. The turquoise jeep is right behind him, and Scott jumps out, and Derek knows he's hurt, but his whole pack is here this time, and he feels nothing less than unstoppable.

The five Betas are all waiting in the house. He vaguely remembers them from two weeks earlier, and he can tell from the alarm crossing their faces that they remember him. When he came in with his eyes flashing red, his anger so strong it was like a physical force clearing a path before him, marching up to their Alpha utterly absent of fear.

Part of him would love to stay and rip them to shreds. But honestly, in his state, he's not sure of his chances against five other wolves. And anyway, he has more pressing business here.

His pack jump on the Betas, and he hears the melee join behind him. Good. He trusts his pack enough to keep the Betas off his back.

He kicks the basement door open.

(Which really isn't necessary. It didn't offer much resistance, so he's pretty sure it wasn't locked in the first place.)

The Alpha's standing over the wingwalker. Its body is whole, huge wings splayed out on the floor to either side. But he can see in the half-light that its midsection has started to ripple, tendrils of bruise-purple flesh rising from the surface like bubbles in boiling water. He bares his teeth. The Alpha's woken it up already, and this close to dusk, it'll be at near-full strength.

"Did you come here to kill me?" The Alpha nods at him. "You sure that was a good idea? You don't look so good."

The wingwalker's waking, but it's not up yet. Derek jumps off the top stair, drops to the floor. He's angrier than he expected to be. That smug expression is the same one the Alpha was wearing when Derek first came here to rescue Stiles. The mild amusement, the smirk that sloppily conceals the repellent leer lurking beneath. He roars, charges. The Alpha ducks away, taking a step back.

And keeps stepping back. Doesn't attack or take any risks. He's obviously just waiting for the wingwalker to wake. Derek growls in frustration, but glances behind him, because the monster is moving.

He and the Alpha sense it at the same time, and their eyes fly to the top of the stairs.

Stiles, in the doorway. The hall light illuminates him only from the back, but Derek knows that silhouette. The bulky hoodie, the stick-thin legs.

The Alpha's off and running up the stairs, and Derek's right on his tail, clawing at his legs. He slows him down some, claws digging deep into the muscles of his calves; but the Alpha makes a well-aimed kick to his temple that sends him flying off the edge of the stairs and landing hard on the concrete below.

That one hurts.

He barely recovers his senses in time to roll away from the wingwalker's swipe.

The monster's body is still scored from their clash the night before, but it stands tall and steady. "Back for more, wolf? How kind to bring your young friends. Perhaps I can kill all of you tonight, and fulfill my contract!"

Derek squares himself to it, crouched and ready to move. He spares a glance toward the top of the stairs. The Alpha's gone. As is Stiles.

_"Just take care of the monster, and leave the Alpha to me."_

Time to focus.

—

Stiles knows he can't outrun a werewolf, but if he has to try, then he'll take the headstart.

He's gone over this in his head a million times, where he's gonna go, what he's gonna do, and he knows the Alpha won't kill him. Yet he finds that these are small comforts when there's a possibly psychotic animal-person breaking down doors (literally) to chase him down and take him.

He makes it outside, but not much further, feels the terrifying mass slamming into him from behind and bowling him over, limbs tangling in his own, and he's flying off the front porch and rolling across the lawn. Finally he lands on his back with a _thump_ that knocks the wind out of him.

There's a crushing weight on his lower arms just below the elbow, and he lets out a reflexive "ow!", looking down urgently to see what it is. The Alpha's knees. Pressing his arms into the grass.

Pinned.

The Alpha grins down. His eyes are red, but not like Derek's, not the twin flames, bright and reckless; they're darker, more viscous. Like stagnating blood. The Alpha's bleeding, two thin lines that trail up his jawline from the point of his chin. Derek's work.

The Alpha cocks his head. "Why are you here?"

Then his hands are running down Stiles's torso. Stiles's back arches off the ground, trying to break the contact, but it's useless. The Alpha's fingers dive into his sweatshirt pocket, and he pulls a surprised face as he withdraws a small knife. He lifts the blade, inhales, smiles. "A knife laced with wolfsbane. Did you mean to lure me to you and poison me, Stiles?"

Stiles jolts a little. He'd forgotten the Alpha knows his name, and even hearing it from his mouth feels like battery. He gathers his courage, turns his head away. "I guess not."

"It was a nice thought. Truly. But I have more threatening foes to…"

The Alpha's weight shifts as he leans forward. Stiles still refuses to look.

_Come on. Notice it._

"You smell like him."

Stiles's eyes widen.

_Yes._

The Alpha dips down, presses his face into the crook of Stiles's shoulder (and Stiles shudders, even though he knew this was coming, knew he was waiting for exactly this). "Your Alpha. You smell like him."

_Yeah, that's right, I slept on top of him for four hours last night because we're dating, you asshole, and he's probably killing your creepy-ass monster right now, and when he's done with that, you better watch out because I think he's pretty pissed at you. _But Stiles doesn't say any of that. He needs to protract this as much as he can. He already exposed his neck when he turned away from the Alpha; now it's time to show some emotional vulnerability. "Um, I—I mean, we're—"

"_Together?_ Are you _together? _Oh my God." The Alpha throws his head back and laughs, big and harsh. "Jesus, Stiles, you really got a type, don't you? Something about you, just drives us Alphas crazy."

Then he leans in suddenly, close enough so that his breath condenses on Stiles's neck, and the sheen of panic tears that materializes in Stiles's eyes is real, but he's under control, he's under control, and the Alpha draws no tears from him.

"Thing is, Stiles, crazy's not such a good look on me."

The Alpha is so close that Stiles feels the aspirations on the skin of his neck.

It is at this point he loses it for a moment, just thinks in a frantic rush _no no no Derek please please shit shit shit come on Derek come on come on_, but that's not helping, that's _not_ helping, so he fights it, fights the Alpha's grip on the front of his shirt, kicks his legs, grabs for anything around him as the Alpha drags him across the grass, into the house, up the stairs. His efforts gain him some time, but they are ultimately in vain, and he even gets a few stomped fingers for his troubles. He swallows, swears to himself that he will not panic, no matter what. He will not let the Alpha win that from him. Yet he can feel the hysteria scratching at the back of his mind, pushing its fingers through the cracks. His heart is pounding so hard he's afraid it'll explode.

So when he sees Derek fly (well, jump, but it looks like he's flying) from the doorway to the spot halfway up the stairs where the Alpha's standing—well, he can't remember ever having been so happy to see a terrifying non-human creature hurtling straight toward him. Derek roars just before he collides with the Alpha, and they tumble down the stairs.

Stiles starts clambering upward, away from the brawl. He can't roar, but he'll offer his own tag to the battle cry, and cups his hands to his mouth. "Yeah, bitch!"

—

The wingwalker's hurt, but Derek's hurt worse, because the damn thing apparently heals quicker than he does and has had a whole day to do so, and his pack is stuck upstairs fighting off the Bridgewater Betas, and Derek is angry.

Maybe because of its stupid goddamn smile. It smiles all the time, except when it's snapping its teeth shut within mere millimeters of his flesh because he _just_ manages to dodge its bite. He's getting real tired of its shtick. And the fact that's dauntingly fast even without using its wings.

Because it appears to have learned its lesson, and is now completely refusing to expose its organs for Derek to get at. This isn't good. He needs to kill it soon, before the Alpha can do anything to Stiles. But he can't do that if it's making him use up every bit of his attention to avoid getting seriously injured or poisoned.

He kicks it away from him. Separation. There's a fraction of a second to breathe. He glances beyond it, over its shoulder.

There's an idea.

He bolts past it, throwing a wild, claw-enhanced uppercut in its direction as he goes. The blow doesn't land, but he didn't need it to; that was just for cover. He skids to a stop right beside the table that bears its lower half.

It screeches at him, a piercing sound that makes his eardrums feel like they're being pulverized. But he can't afford to cover his ears, and instead digs his claws into its severed legs and lifts them up.

The legs are held together by a sexless juncture, and the flaps of skin at the top form the bottom part of its internal cavity—the part that would normally hold its unsecured viscera. When his claws penetrate the flesh of its legs, its screech changes pitch and timbre, becomes higher but less excruciating to his ears somehow, and he realizes that it feels the damage from his claws, even though its halves are separated. So he keeps the lower half in front of him like a shield as he rounds the table, and the wingwalker is right there with him, but it won't attack. He was right; it's reluctant to hurt its own severed limbs. He backs up the stairs. Still, he can tell that it's not too worried, or it would be more desperate. It doesn't think he can truly kill it.

Not until he gets to the top of the stairs, and it hears the _clink_ of glass on wood as Derek kicks over the jar of ashes Stiles left there. _Open-topped. Good thinking._

It screams again, and lunges at him, teeth snapping, claws swiping, but he ducks low in a crouch, hefts its lower half, and jams the top into the spread of ashes on the floor.

He sees it first in the monster's makeshift legs, the twisted-up wings, sees ashes trickling out through the seams and realizes its organs are disintegrating before his eyes.

He doesn't stay to see the rest.

Because he hears the commotion behind him, the heavy footsteps, the thumps of rubber soles kicking walls, the quick "ouch!" when the Alpha hurts Stiles.

He whirls, runs toward the sound.

The Alpha's on the stairs with Stiles, who doesn't look hurt, but the sight of the Alpha reignites Derek's killing mood, and he leaps for the stairs from across the room, vaulting the bannister and tackling the Alpha.

He soon discovers he's not the only one in a killing mood. The Alpha fights much more viciously than last time, and Derek takes more than a few hits before he's forced to admit that he needs to focus on defending himself or risk getting seriously hurt. They cross the room, backing up against one wall, throwing each other against another wall, furniture splintering in their wake. Derek's losing. He can tell from the proportion of hits he's taking to those he's landing, from the way his grunts of pain compare to the other Alpha's furious growling. It's incredibly frustrating, how he knows exactly what he has to do to hurt the Alpha and yet the Alpha still manages to counteract him every step of the way. He came in here ready to hurt, to take revenge, to protect Stiles, who was really goddamn brave to face this guy alone, and now he can't even do that and he's losing. He's losing. He's losing.

Isaac's the first one to join in, just flinging himself at the Alpha, really, but it's enough for Derek to connect with a slash that rips half the skin off the Alpha's cheek. Isaac's thrown off almost immediately, but he and Derek are in this together now, and Scott's the next to show, then Boyd. The Alpha fends them off pretty easily, but now Derek has enough space to do some damage, and he does, damages and damages, rips into the Alpha's body with his claws until there's bits of flesh and more scattered amongst the splatters of blood on the floor. Eventually the Alpha can't even stand anymore, and he crumples.

Derek walks over. The Alpha lashes out at him, but Derek catches his wrist, plants a boot on his shoulder, and yanks hard. He feels the joint shifting under his foot, and the Alpha screams. Derek does the same on the other side, just in case. Then he kneels.

Killing an Alpha's not very hard, as long as you know what kinds of deaths will stick and what won't. Blood loss, for example, is curable. Evisceration is a long-term fix, but will also mend in time. These are not deaths. Decapitation is a true death.

He doesn't have a knife, so he does it with his claws, sinks them into the Alpha's throat. The Alpha starts to scream, but the sound turns abruptly to a whining gurgle as his vocal cords are ruptured. Derek digs his fingers in, pushing aside the tendons and muscle, the esophagus, the delicate blood vessels, until he finds the vertebra of the neck.

The Alpha's body is mostly ruined by now, but he still convulses, eyes rolling, arms trying to move despite his crushed shoulder joints. Derek's working only by touch, so he feels for a ridge, an indication of a split between two vertebra. Then he wedges his claw into it, popping the bones apart and severing the spinal cord. The Alpha falls suddenly into silence. Even then, Derek's not sure if that qualifies as decapitation, so he goes through more thoroughly, saws through the muscles and tendons, rips apart the skin, blood vessels, tissue, and cartilage piece by piece until he can finally tear the Alpha's head free from his body.

He thought he'd enjoy that more, honestly, but he still feels satisfied, although Scott's eyes are averted, and Boyd appears faintly sick, and Isaac has simply faced the wall to avoid any possibility of having to see the gruesome spectacle. Derek looks up the stairs at Stiles. He's covered his face with both hands.

Derek turns his own hands back and forth. They're coated liberally in blood, as is the rest of him, although that's largely his own; he can feel his body faltering. "Hey. I'm done."

Stiles splits his fingers and peers down. "Oh my God—is that his _head?_" He covers his eyes again hurriedly.

"His—oh. Yeah." Derek realizes he didn't think about how the separated body might also be considered gruesome.

A muffled whimper from the top of the stairs. "Can we go home now?"


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **As promised, this is the last chapter. Again, it switches between Derek and Stiles.

I would _very_ much appreciate it if you'd leave me a review with what you think could be improved about this story or my writing in general. This is my first fic, and I'd really like to get better.

—

Derek's sitting in the passenger seat of Stiles's Jeep.

He was unsteady at best after fighting off the Alpha, and when the adrenaline faded, he only got worse, barely able to stand without support, eyes slipping in and out of focus. So Boyd took the initiative, digging in Derek's pocket and retrieving the keys to the Camaro, volunteering to do the driving himself.

Derek was at least conscious enough to insist on riding in the Jeep.

(Stiles put a towel over the seat first. Derek's bleeding everywhere, and while Stiles is certainly fretting about the whole "copious loss of vital bodily fluids" thing, he's also aware that extensive bloodstains on the upholstery will be remarkably difficult to explain away to his father. Perhaps insurmountably so.)

With the help of the pack, Allison managed to poison each one of the Betas (now Omegas) with a fast-acting but short-term variety of strength-sapping wolfsbane, the same one she used on the Alpha the first time they crossed paths. The five wolves are lying incapacitated there in the house, and they'll be the ones to deal with the aftermath. Erica is the only one who was seriously injured; Isaac helped her into the back of the Camaro, lay her head on his leg.

And now Derek is sitting in the passenger seat of Stiles's Jeep, and Stiles glances over so often that his eyes probably spend more time on Derek than on the road.

Derek sometimes gazes out the window, sometimes looks like he's asleep. His breathing is shallow and labored, but he seems relaxed.

"You're drifting."

Stiles jolts. He is drifting. He guides the Jeep back to the right lane.

Derek smiles, quietly. "If you crash this car and kill us all after I made it out of there by the skin of my teeth…"

"Hey, I'm sorry, it's just that, you know, you really don't look too good, and I'm kind of afraid that all the life is gonna drain out of you at any second—"

"Stiles. You know this won't kill me."

Stiles doesn't respond immediately. "I know. I can't help it."

When he glances over this time, Derek's looking at him.

He's not expecting that, to be fixed with those green-gray eyes, and he forgets to pay attention to the road until Derek nods at the windshield. "Stiles."

He's drifting again.

—

Derek sleeps for days.

Not all in a row. He floats in and out, sometimes half-conscious, most of the time dead to the world. But his body's taken a serious beating; the wingwalker and the Alpha weren't kind to him. Isaac and Boyd had to carry him inside when they returned from Bridgewater.

The first time he wakes up for real, he aches, his entire body aches, the healing process turning his wounds into flesh that is whole but fragile, still structurally unsound.

His eyes are shut, but he smells Stiles, and reaches out in that direction instinctively. Stiles catches his hand, and Derek cracks his eyes open. The fluorescent light nearly blinds him.

"Hey." Stiles is grinning. "You're still alive."

"Course I'm alive." He briefly considers sitting up, but there is no part of him that wants to do that, so he stays down.

"How're you feeling?"

"Awful." He grits his teeth. It's true. Breathing hurts. Moving hurts. Not moving hurts.

"Price you pay for being a badass." Stiles shrugs. "Although you did cut it kinda close at the end there."

"I know." Derek tilts his head away. He did cut it close. Way too close. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, no, don't worry about it. I'm fine, you're…well, you'll _be_ fine, we're all fine, so it's, you know, fine."

"Just don't do anything like that again."

Stiles gives him an incredulous look. "Um, I'll do whatever the hell I want." He relents. "But probably not like that."

Because Stiles doesn't take orders from him. _"Trust me to pull my own weight." _That's frustrating, too. He doesn't want Stiles to get hurt. Obviously. But he can't sequester him away. He can't _make_ Stiles do anything. He's not an Alpha here. He's just a man.

Yes, it's frustrating. But he has to accept that he's not responsible for what Stiles chooses to do.

(And anyway, Stiles isn't exactly one to take orders in the first place.)

Sleep sneaks up on him before he can say anything else.

He wakes up a few more times. Stiles is usually there, doing homework or dozing on the mattress next to him. Sometimes he's brought takeout, and they talk a little over sandwiches and curly fries.

The last time Derek wakes up, he knows he's ready. His body is sound. Restless, even.

Stiles isn't with him.

He pokes his head out of the break room. Erica's doing pull-ups in the threshold of the train car. But she senses him, and drops to the floor. "Hey there, sleepyhead! 'Bout time you were up and at 'em."

He cracks his neck. His body may be healed, but it's still stiff. "Why are you here?"

"Keeping an eye on you." She shrugs. "What else?"

"You've been—"

"Me and the guys. In shifts."

He nods. The "thank you" is implied. "Where's—"

"He swung by earlier but said he couldn't stay. Thing with his dad tonight." She grins. "But it's, like, almost eleven at night. Whatever was keeping him busy, it's probably over."

Derek nods again, heads to the showers.

—

There's a knocking at his window.

Stiles looks up from his laptop. It's Derek (who else would it be?), healthy and leather jacket-clad once again. He scrambles up, yanks the window open, grabs Derek's face, and kisses him.

Evidently Derek's not expecting this, because he loses his balance and starts sliding backwards down the roof; but he grabs Stiles's arm before he slips too far.

"Hey." Stiles is grinning like an idiot and can't stop. "You got better."

"Yeah." Derek climbs into the room.

"Finally." Stiles sits on the edge of the bed. "So you came over to start paying back all the visits you owe me?"

"Guess you could say that." Derek leans against the window sill. "Thanks. For hanging out at the station so much. You didn't have to do that."

"Oh, come on." He rolls his eyes. "I was there because I wanted to be there."

"Stiles. I was practically comatose." He scratches the back of his head. "Not really great company."

"Who cares? I just—I don't know." And now he starts getting embarrassed. "I like being around you. Even if you snore at jet-engine volume levels."

Derek's eyes narrow. "I do not—"

Stiles concedes. "Okay, fine, no, you weren't."

There's a moment of silence. Derek looks like he wants to say something. Stiles isn't gonna make this any easier on him. Finally Derek gets the question out. "Can I stay here tonight?"

"Um, yeah." As if this were obvious. "I gotta go brush my teeth is all, gimme a few minutes."

When they're lying next to each other, Derek's arm slotted under Stiles's head, Stiles is so stupidly happy that he doesn't know how the hell he's supposed to actually fall asleep. He's gotta be up tomorrow at 7 a.m. for school. Maybe this sleepover thing wasn't such a good idea.

"Hey Derek?"

"Hm?"

"Um—I know you're not really—I mean, I know you kind of keep to yourself, so I'm happy you took a chance on me."

Derek snorts. "You make it sound like I had a choice."

"Huh?"

"You think I _wanted_ to get into a relationship with a high-school kid—a _human_ kid—who's hyperactive, doesn't listen to _anyone_, and is too smart for his own good?"

That's pretty accurate, actually. "Oh."

"But you kind of forced my hand."

Stiles isn't opposed to hearing more about that.

"I don't know. Being around you—I don't know. All these things that have happened to me, that—stay with me, they don't get to me as much." Derek shifts under Stiles's head. "I think I'm moving on. I didn't even realize it. And I think it's mainly been your fault."

Stiles grins, flips over, flops an arm over Derek's chest. "My magic at work." They're silent again, for a few moments. Stiles decides to take a risk. "…so you wanna go bowling sometime or—"

"No."

"But we're dating and—"

"I would rather be struck by lightning. Repeatedly."

Stiles heaves a sigh. "God, you're so difficult."

"Did you actually expect me to agree to that?"

"Not really." He tucks his hand under Derek's back. "It's okay. I've accepted that about you."

This is exactly where Stiles wants to be. Feeling more at peace than he has at any time in the past few months. And he's pretty sure Derek feels the same way, which might be the best part. Having given Mr. Frownywolf something to smile about, at least, in his fragmented, ash-streaked life. It cost them both a few horribly frightening and stress-filled nights, a few trips to the edge and back (because Stiles remembers how much he was falling apart that first night, too shaken, too completely in shock to even think about putting himself back together; and no matter how many times Derek asserts that he's impossible to kill, Stiles can never quite bring himself to believe it). It hasn't gone away, either. The memory of the Alpha is too close. But just this spot, with his head resting on Derek's shoulder, their legs tangled together, he's never felt safer.


End file.
